


in the silence, a sound

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Also This is Weird But I Kinda Sorta Fancast Lee Pace as Norman in my Head, And Did a Damn Better Job of it than She's Doing with Milly Now, Autistic Milly, Autistic Will Graham, Cannibalism, Half-Sister AU, Hannibal and Will are gonna have to learn to speak Pokemon with her, I've also been told Norman Reedus makes a good fit for Will's dad as well lmao, Idk he just seems like he'd fit the role of a good dad really well lol, It's pretty damn precious tbh, Lorraine's Brother Raised Him as His Own Child, M/M, Milly Speaks Exclusively in Pokemon, Mostly Nonverbal Character, Murder Family AU, Oops I forgot to tag for the cannibalism earlier, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Picture whoever you like for the OCs lovelies it's really all up to you ;), Pokemon - Freeform, Stimming, Will Has a Sister, Will's Dad was Actually his Uncle by Blood, my bad - Freeform, s1 au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2018-11-01 23:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10932195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: "Never knew her," Will says when Hannibal asks about his mother. It is not, technically, a lie. He has never cared to know her, never sought her out nor found himself looking forward to her occasional, sporadic visits when he was younger with anything more than a quiet, resentful sense of resignation. He doesn't think much of the half-truth that slips carelessly from his tongue. He hasn't seen her since his father's funeral and never expects to hear from her again.And then one day there is a knock on his door, one that brings a family reunion he would sooner have kept on avoiding...and a first meeting which redefines everything he thought he knew he wanted.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU took its first baby steps on tumblr, but has grown enough since then that I figure it's high time I give it a more stable home at last. ;)

Will’s just grabbed his keys and his jacket and is already, in fact, on his way to the front door when the dogs start barking at something outside. Immediately, he silences them with a quick _tss_ and cautiously moves toward the window to peek through the curtain, expecting to see maybe a deer or a fox perhaps, and draws his eyebrows close together in confusion when he sees instead an unfamiliar red Mustang parked next to his Volvo.

He jumps ever so slightly when the knock comes and curses himself for it, screwing his eyes shut in embarrassment. He wishes he wouldn’t get so jittery at random noises, especially ones he should have been expecting in the first place. The knock persists, which is not helping any with his composure at the moment, but at least it doesn’t startle him now.

Drawing a breath, he lets the curtain fall back and steels himself for those next tense seconds of having to awkwardly give directions to some lost hapless commuter and just hopes this won’t make him _too_ late for work.

He opens the door and the first thing he thinks is, _“hair.”_ Straightened, bleach-blonde hair to be precise. Heels. An outfit that would not look out of place on Freddie Lounds, if she sewed her own clothes and bought the rest secondhand at a thrift shop, that is. Knockoff handbag and luggage. Glossy pink lipstick.

Glossy pink lipstick on lips that curl up on an awkward, embarrassed half-crooked smile that looks like...looks like—

_“Mirror,”_ his brain supplies first before automatically self-correcting to _“mine.”_  His gaze shifts up to take in the rest of the face. He blinks. He stares.

The pink lips part and then close again as if their owner has thought better of it. Eyes the color of a storm at sea stare back in his own, wideset and— _hopeful terrified uncertain oh god what am I doing here this was a bad idea_ —limned with concealer that almost disguise the deep crow’s feet at their corners and tired shadows underneath. The pink lips part again.

“Um,” his mother says, and then suddenly lets out a bark of nervous laughter that makes Will’s ears twitch like one of his dog’s. “Would you believe I...I had a whole speech planned but I just, _heh,_ plum forgot whatever it was as soon as I saw you,” she finishes with another awkward chuckle and self-deprecating shrug of her shoulders. Lorraine Graham’s Louisiana drawl is deeper than he remembers and he wonders for a moment if she’s doing it unconsciously or on purpose in some sort of odd attempt to put him more at ease.

She clears her throat. “Lookit you though, baby!” she adds too brightly once she realizes he’s not going to say anything back yet. “You’ve...uh, gotten so big since I saw you last! When was that, must’ve been—”

“Ten years ago,” Will interrupts, tersely enough that her mouth snaps shut and she glances away, embarrassed again. “And I’m the same height since you saw me last, unless you’re pointing out that I no longer have the same skinny physique as a man in his twenties,” he adds sardonically.

“No! No, of course not, I just— _dammit,”_ she curses, hiding her eyes behind her hand for a moment, though she’s careful only to touch her eyebrows with her fingertips lest she smudge her makeup. “Look, I know this is weird and out of the blue and I’m nervous as hell, alright? I just said the first stupid thing that popped into my head regardless of whether it made any damn sense.”

Unseen while she’s still covering her eyes, his lip twitches up once in a half-amused smirk against his will. Maybe it’s that which makes him decide to take pity on her. He’ll have to call Alana and ask her to cover his morning classes, it seems.

“It’s fine, let’s just...get out of the doorway. It’s awkward standing here,” he says brusquely and steps back to let her through. “Come on in.”

“Oh, thank you,” she breathes out, visibly relieved. “But first, um, let me introduce you, there’s a...” she pauses and glances around, seeming to realize for the first time that she is standing on Will’s porch alone. _“Aw hell,”_ she mutters to herself, and Will bites down on the urge to tell her his invitation doesn’t stand for whomever in her latest string of beaus decided to tag along anyway.

He really shouldn’t be surprised when she turns her back on him without another word and stomps down the porch steps, and begins to wonder if it’s not too late to change his mind, latch the door closed and pretend he is abruptly no longer home when she knocks again, wait her out until she leaves.

_“What the hell are you doing over there?”_ he hears her suddenly call out sharply from around the side of the house. Somehow it does not sound the way he would imagine her talking to one of her boyfriends, and without making a conscious decision about it, he steps out and follows the way she went.

His walk becomes a sprint when he suddenly hears a loud distressed wail, hand automatically reaching for a gun that is not currently strapped to his hip.

The wail stops as abruptly as it began. When he rounds the corner, he sees his mother looking down with a weary expression on her face at a child whose back is turned to her with arms crossed. Coming closer, he can make out now what the woman is saying.

“...don’t do this, baby. Not now, _not here._ You were so good on the ride over, I don’t _understand—”_ She turns around at the sound of his approach and curses when she sees him. Looking back and forth between Will and the girl, she pulls a face and says, “I _touched_ her. Now, you watch, she’ll be mad at me all day now.”

“You scared her,” he murmurs, voice hushed but movements slow and deliberately telegraphed as he continues walking forward, never taking his eyes off the little girl with her back to them. “She wasn’t expecting it.”

Lorraine sighs and directs her words back to the girl once more. “Mirabelle Graham, you at least turn around so he can get a proper look at you. Honey? Can you even understand me right now?” Making another exasperated grunt, she turns her attention to Will again. “Guess we know which side of the family you get it from now, huh?” she says with a note of self-blame in her voice. If Will were focused on her words right now, he would hate her for it.

“Mirabelle,” he tests the name softly on his lips, kneeling down into a low crouch so he is at roughly the same height as her. All he can see of her at the moment is her brightly colored Pokémon backpack and her braided pigtails, both curling at the ends and the same chocolatey shade as his own hair. He swallows past a lump in his throat.

“Milly, turn around,” the woman repeats sternly, and Will wants to yell at her but he won’t, not in front of the girl. From her height, he guesses she might be about seven or eight years old. She starts rocking on the balls of her little feet.

“Young lady, do you want a spanking?” his mother asks, and for a wild, terrifying instant Will thinks about launching himself at her and putting his hands around her throat. The moment passes though and his fingers uncurl from the balled fists they’re making as the little girl does slowly shuffle around in a little circle to finally face him.

“Hi Milly,” he intones softly. The girl sucks her thumb into her mouth shyly and lets her eyes skitter over him without landing anywhere in particular. It’s enough at least for him to see that her eyes are the same blue-green shade as his own as well. His heart lurches painfully.

When her eyes finally do stop darting around, they latch firmly and unblinkingly onto his own, and in that single moment Will’s entire worldview shifts.

Suddenly, he no longer feels alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got distracted with making dinner and only put one chapter up a little while ago. Here come the rest to you now (there are four in total so far). ^_~

“Milly, this is your half-brother Billy—”

“Will,” he corrects Lorraine automatically without looking up at her. No one has _ever_ called him that except for her. It has always bothered him, though he used to have a hard time pinpointing exactly why, apart from general distaste, the few times he met her as a kid.

He doesn’t have that problem anymore. It’s because she doesn’t have the right to give him a nickname, especially not a sappy and childish one like that. She gave up that right when she handed him off to her brother thirty years ago and promptly left again without looking back.

“—He used to live with your Uncle Norm when he was little.” Will’s jaw clenches but he says nothing this time. It is technically correct even if _‘Uncle Norm’_ is a phrase that has never once passed his lips. “He invited us into his house so we have to go inside now, okay?” Milly shakes her head with her whole body, the thumb never leaving its secure spot between her teeth.

Will smiles at the girl. “We don’t have to yet if you don’t want to,” he reassures her, ignoring the mildly disgruntled look their mother shoots at him. Lorraine can go hang for all that Will cares. He still has eyes only for the sibling he just met.

“Do you like dogs?” he asks Milly. Depending on her reaction, he’ll have to determine whether it’s best to get her acquainted with them now or sequester them off to a different part of the house or outside for as long as she’s here.

The girl’s eyes light up, thumb coming out of her mouth with a _pop_ for the first time since she’s turned around. _“Woof. Woof!”_ she exclaims in a surprisingly good imitation of a puppy’s bark. Will couldn’t wipe off the silly grin on his face if he tried. He barely manages to swallow down the tickle at the back of his throat, the one that feels suspiciously like a return bark itching to be loosed.

“She speaks,” says Lorraine with arch amusement. “That’s about all you’ll usually get out of her in a day too. Girl hears what you say just fine, but try getting her to talk and that’s as close as you’ll get, unless of course you ask her to list every damn Pokémon in existence.”

“Bulbasaur, Ivysaur, Venusaur, Charmander, Char—”

“Hush now, that wasn’t an invitation, you. The grown-ups are talking.” Lorraine makes another face and tells Will, “Trust me, I just saved you and me a _long_ headache.” Will bites down hard on his tongue to prevent himself from telling Lorraine the only voice giving him a headache is her own.

_“Charmeleon,”_ Mirabelle says loudly as soon as her mother stops speaking, as though holding onto the word for that long unfinished had physically pained her. “Charizard,” she adds last with an air of confident finality.

She frowns, however, clearly still not satisfied, and darts her little face to look back and forth between both of them for a moment, gauging her mother’s disapproving expression and Will’s open and interested one. After a moment’s hesitation, she leans forward slightly and cups her left hand at the side of her face, as though Lorraine won’t be able to get mad if she can’t see her lips move, and whispers conspiratorially, _“Squirtle, Wortortle, Blastoise.”_

Will tilts his head at her curiously and then nods once, tacit confirmation that while he may not understand the words or the context of what she just said yet, he acknowledges their grave importance nonetheless.

“Yep, that’s what I do, just smile and nod,” Lorraine says, interrupting the moment between them. Mirabelle promptly sucks her thumb back into her mouth and looks away from them again, while Will considers the merit of discussing with Hannibal at their next session the worrying number of times he’s thought about killing his mother in the last half-hour alone.

“Baby, use the toy instead of your thumb. That’s what I bought it for,” Lorraine chides, not ungently, which reminds Will that, for better or worse, at least she _is_ trying. Milly obediently pulls her thumb out of her mouth and replaces it with the purple rubber conch shell hanging on a cord around her neck.

“I have seven,” he blurts out of nowhere. Lorraine looks at him strangely and he realizes belatedly that she thinks he means stim toys, but his primary focus is on Mirabelle and their unfinished discussion from earlier. He waits patiently until the girl returns her gaze to him, somewhere around the vicinity of his chin, and answers now with his own soft but deep _“woof,”_ mainly to clarify his meaning for her sake, but also if he admits to himself partly to scandalize Lorraine.

Mirabelle’s mouth falls open in such a shocked and pleased grin that the toy falls right out again. She flaps her arms rapidly at her sides and stomp-paces in place in her excitement.

“Ready to meet them?” he asks her. Later, years from now, these exact words in the exact inflection he just used will swirl around over and over again in a loop in his head that will last for the better part of a day. It will take most of that day for him to remember what it is about the question that makes it stand out.

It is the first statement in his entire adult life that he has ever uttered with so much enthusiasm and childish delight, and it will not be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw yes, the chapters are all pretty short since I've been updating this one in the form of mini-ficlets on tumblr until now. I'm hoping to keep them that way so they stay fairly consistent (and _maybe_ get miraculously put out faster than my other WIPs?? Heh, we'll see. :P)


	3. Chapter 3

It’s such a treat to get to introduce Milly to each of the dogs in turn and watch her pure, unbridled delight with every one of them that for a while Will forgets to pay attention to a word their mother is saying. The woman has not stopped chattering since they stepped inside, apparently too used to being ignored by one child to pay Will’s inattention any mind, or possibly just remembering his taciturn nature and lack of eye contact at the rare few birthday parties and belated Christmases she attended and assuming he’ll absorb whatever relevant bits of what she’s saying through some kind of empathetic osmosis to be parsed later.

She is not entirely incorrect either. He catches enough to understand the gist of what she’s saying—some plan fell through, or she lost her last job or her last boyfriend, something along those lines, _blah blah,_ the same old story her brother must have heard a thousand times both before and after she dropped a mysterious infant nephew unceremoniously into his lap and took off again a couple hundred bucks richer. It took awhile for Will to figure out that those surprise holiday visits she occasionally paid usually coincided with times she needed to “borrow” some cash, but once he did he’d resented her all the more for it.

He and his dad got by, of course, but they weren’t made of money. Those visits tended to result in a couple of hard weeks of Norman squeezing his paycheck tighter than usual, barely scraping enough together to ensure _something_ made it onto Will’s dinner plate every evening at least if not his own. He could only be thankful that those visits were few and far between, the woman only ever seeming to show up on their doorstep as a last resort after she’d exhausted all other options.

Looking at it in that light, he realizes her eventual reappearance was inevitable. With Norm’s passing, it’s only logical that the torch should pass to Will as Lorraine’s new rainy day provider. He only wonders now how long it will take her to work up the courage to ask. He wants to be angry, offended by it even, and had she come here alone he would have probably tossed her out on her ear faster than she could longingly lay eyes on his wallet.

She didn’t come alone, however. He thinks of the little girl, currently trying to play hide-and-seek with Will’s lovable pack of mutts in his living room, spending who knows how many nights already in that cramped Mustang outside with their mother. He thinks about her being gone from his life forever just as quickly as she appeared, and knows that his decision has already been made.

“Do you guys want to crash here for the night?” he asks, getting the words out quickly before he can rethink them. He nearly offers the guestroom upstairs, but the possibility of one of them coming downstairs for a midnight glass of water and witnessing him in the throes of a nightmare makes him think better of it, and he offers the pullout couch in the center of the living room instead, resigned to moving back upstairs himself for the immediate foreseeable future.

He is shocked into silence by a pair of feminine arms clasped tightly around him. Her head is beside his, both staring at opposite walls over each other’s shoulders, for which Will is grateful because it means Lorraine can’t see the mostly terrified and slightly pained expression he is currently directing at a bland painting the last owners left behind of a bowl of fruit.

“Thank you so much, baby!” she says, her hair uncomfortably tickling his cheek, voice choked with achingly sincere gratitude and relief, enough to make him feel guilty over the things he thought about her earlier. It’s easy for his memory to paint her as a villain, selfish and self-absorbed and casually cruel because of it, and _all too easy_ when she’s actually here to remember that she is still all of those things, yet also _—painfully, warmly—_ fragile and human. All of which, of course, makes her just as impossible to hate as every other monster that occupies his headspace.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly after a minute, having finally noticed his stiffness, and pulls back from him. “I forget you don’t like being touched a lot either.”

“It’s more that I don’t like surprises,” he amends, wondering if she is thinking back to the same moment he is, when they first “met” a couple of years after she dropped him off. Will had been four, and he still remembers it with the vivid clarity of that four-year-old, when the world was too big and colorful and strange. He remembers the bright, cheerful creature—with hair cropped short then, allowed to bounce naturally in its tight, springy curls and dyed a shiny, coppery red—spreading its arms wide and calling him Billy-bear and naming itself Mommy as it scooped him up without warning.

He remembers how he had screeched and thrashed wildly to get away—his adult mind making itself heard again for just a moment here, to point out what a small miracle it was that she hadn’t dropped him then and there—his fingers snagging no-doubt-painfully in her curls while trying and failing to claw at her now turned away face, desperate to hurt the monster so it would let him go.

He remembers his daddy rushing in to the rescue, taking Will’s continued thrashing and screaming in his own arms in stride, knowing better than the boy that this was _not_ the time to put him down yet, not until the gentle rocking and soothing murmur of his voice broke through to Will at last, making him realize it was his daddy’s strong, dependable arms around him now and that the scary red witch wasn’t going to try and snatch him up again.

It was one of his earliest childhood memories and had left an indelible scar on his psyche. Strange though, that he had never once before today considered what sort of scar it must have left on hers as well. Or perhaps not so strange—he has, after all, made a point of looking through her eyes as little as possible throughout his life and marked his overall success at it as a peculiar point of pride. He does not remember what, if anything, his father must have said to Lorraine after Will had calmed down. He does not remember seeing her much the rest of that day at all.

He thinks back to earlier this morning, when she had grabbed Milly’s arm and somehow been surprised, yet also resigned, by her daughter’s reaction. He thinks that Lorraine doesn’t learn her lessons well, but she does learn a little. A little, but not enough.

He tries to push the thought away by telling himself it’s not fair to judge an allistic parent with an autistic child too harshly, even as his brain whispers traitorously that his dad managed it pretty well and did a much better job. Even as his brain whispers treacherously that _he_ could do a much better job, and not just because he is also autistic and can empathize.

He clears his throat. “Come on, I’ll give y’all a quick tour of the house,” he mumbles, and does not allow himself to look at either one of them for as long as such dangerous thoughts continue to linger too close to the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would it be utterly _shameless_ of me to admit that I would kind of maybe really really love it if someone took it upon themselves to draw some fanart of Norman comforting four-year-old Will after the "scary red witch" scooped him up without asking? _*bats eyelashes pleadingly*_
> 
> ~~I just have way too many feels about Will's dad that I know I'm not gonna be able to cram into one fic, but oh boy, watch me try.~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal finally makes his appearance.

Will is about to start making them lunch—boxed macaroni and cheese which, his mother assures him, is one of the few dishes that would pass the test of Mirabelle’s pickiness—when for the second time that day someone knocks on his front door. He curses, startled, and sets the pot of water down a little harder than he intended on the stovetop, creating another harsh sound that causes similarly pinched expressions to flit over both his and Milly’s faces before the moment passes.

“I’ll get it,” Lorraine announces airily. “You expecting someone, honey?”

“Uh, no,” he mutters, but doubts she hears it over the sound of her already opening the door. He makes sure to turn the stove off before he follows her back to the living room.

“Well, hello,” she purrs in a way that makes him feel sorry for whoever the poor bastard is at his door, at least until he hears the polite yet faintly inquisitive, _“Good afternoon,”_ that answers it and moves his feet faster, feeling something more akin to panic now clawing up his throat.

“Doctor Lecter!” His surprised—and dare he admit, slightly alarmed—exclamation brings the man’s gaze up to him over Lorraine’s shoulder, his diffident smile shifting ever so minutely into something more genuine. It still feels like a small victory, the way he’s slowly been learning how to detect the older man’s microexpressions, especially since faces are typically not one of Will’s stronger suits, though that likely has more to do with how often he avoids them than actual lack of skill.

“Baby, aren’t you gonna introduce me to this doctor friend of yours?” Never has Will wished harder for the earth to swallow him whole than in this very moment. Rather than wait for an answer, Lorraine takes the reins and offers her hand for Hannibal to take. “Lorraine Graham, charmed I’m sure. I’m Will’s momma.” Well, at least she didn’t call him Billy this time.

Will would never have known there was anything stiff about Hannibal’s posture, if not for the way his shoulders loosened just a bit after Lorraine introduced herself as Will’s mother. Interesting. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham,” he answers, shaking her hand. “I’m Hannibal Lecter.”

“Oh, it’s _Miss_ Graham, not missus. I’m afraid I’ve still yet to meet the man who can successfully tie me down.” _Oh god._ He has to stop this woman’s misguided flirting before she scares away his friend.

Stepping forward, he pushes her out of the way without actually touching her, under the guise of opening the door wider so he can allow Hannibal inside. “Come on in,” he says.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose,” says Hannibal, stepping inside nevertheless so they can speak without standing in the open doorway.

“You’re not imposing.” Truth be told, Will is glad to have a familiar face here. It will also give Lorraine someone else to blather on to for a little while. He spares a sliver of guilt over the thought of latching onto the other man to use him as a buffer between himself and his mother.

“I brought lunch with me,” Hannibal says, lifting the heated bag in his other hand for them to see. “I made too much,” so he could insist that Will keep the leftovers for later, the younger man thinks but doesn’t say out loud, “which is fortunate, it would seem, as there is more than enough for all of us to share.”

“Looks like there’ll only be mac and cheese for one then,” says Lorraine. “Speaking of, I’ll take over at the stove so you can help Dr. Lecter set the table,” she adds with a wink before sauntering back into the kitchen.

If Hannibal is offended by the implication of anyone preferring store-bought macaroni over his own cooking, he has the grace not to show it. The look of curiosity he gives Will instead as she leaves the room reminds Will that he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do later.

“After lunch,” Will promises. Though he’d much rather wait until their next session, he feels he owes it to the man now for coming all the way out here. “What made you decide to come out this far anyhow?”

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Hannibal explains. “Alana was concerned so I assured her I would check to make sure nothing was amiss.”

_“Oh shit,”_ Will breathes out, immediately diving for the phone he’d left in his jacket, which he had hung up again once he realized he was no longer leaving the house. “I forgot to call. I was gonna ask her to take over my classes today.” He cusses again when he sees that he has a few texts and a couple of missed calls from her, and one missed call from Hannibal as well.

“I believe she already has, but it will relieve her to know you are safe.”

“Right, I’ll call her now,” Will says, coming back to the door to step outside for some privacy. Hannibal moves to step out of the way, but abruptly stops mid-stride, eyes focused elsewhere. Will turns to look and sees Milly peering up at them from around the other side of the kitchen doorframe.

“Hey, sprogget,” he says, one of his dad’s old terms of affection for him tripping easily off his tongue without him giving it any thought. She steps cautiously into the room and he comes to meet her halfway, crouched beside her at a turn so he can look up at her and Hannibal both.

“This is Hannibal. He’s a friend of mine. Hannibal, this is Mirabelle, my sister. You go by Milly too, isn’t that right?” he asks, realizing he hadn’t thought to do so earlier. He’d hate to keep calling her that now if it turns out she feels the same way about it as he does about ‘Billy.’ Fortunately, she nods readily, looking at him rather than Hannibal as she sways back and forth on the balls of her feet again, lips puckered around the conch shell in her mouth to hold it in place.

He smiles, feeling silly for being pleased by something that seems so trivial, but he knows her like he knows himself at that age, knows that maintaining her gaze so steadily and so often on somebody—not even on his eyes necessarily, which would be difficult on both of them if done too much, but just on his face in general—is not something that happens with just anyone. She hasn’t glanced at their mother more than once the entire time she’s been here.

A soft sound pulls Will’s attention back to Hannibal. For all the shocking things Lecter has surely seen by now since meeting him, Will has never seen the man look surprised as he does now. It softens him in a way Will never would have expected either.

Setting the bag carefully on Will’s lure-making table, Hannibal crouches to be on eye level with the both of them as well. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Mirabelle,” he intones softly. “May I call you Milly as well?”

Rather than give a direct answer by word or gesture, the girl looks at him assessingly, her head tilted at a quizzical angle. “Persian?”

Hannibal blinks at the unexpected answer, or possible question. “Pardon?”

Will huffs an inaudible laugh, one that draws Hannibal’s gaze back to him momentarily, an almost quelling look that belies just a hint of embarrassment, though to anyone but Will perhaps none of that would register. Both men turn their attention back to Milly when she shakes her head, still not an answer but rather a dismissal of her previous statement.

“Golduck,” she says firmly this time with a short nod as if that settles the matter. She turns back to Will, her eyes not quite staring into his but instead appearing to focus on the dark circles underneath them, and pats him on the head in a sympathetic manner. “Psyduck.”

Will’s throat tightens, keeping him from offering anything up in response. He doesn’t have to understand what the word means to realize she’s even more like him than he first thought, with a sharpened insight that allows her to see more of who he is than most grownups seem capable of figuring out after knowing him for years.

This first initiated contact is not lost on him either. Slowly, to let her know the comforting touch is welcome and reciprocated, he places his own hand on the one still nestled in his curls and lets it rest there, gently holding it in place without exerting any pressure.

“Mac is ready!” Lorraine calls out cheerily from the kitchen. Milly gives a tiny smile that Will returns before both of them lower their hands and Milly returns obediently to the kitchen.

He clears his throat after a moment, glancing down at the phone still in his other hand. “I should call Alana now before I forget again.” He stands and stretches out the stiffness until he hears a soft pop in his knees. Looking at Hannibal, he realizes the other man is still kneeling in the same spot.

Hannibal stands swiftly not a second later, turning to retrieve his bag from the table behind him. “I will set the table while you are outside,” he says with his back to Will.

Will feels oddly like putting a hand on the man’s shoulder, but before he can make a move Hannibal is already walking towards the dining area and the moment passes. Shrugging to himself, Will steps out and dials the number to his worried colleague.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with the posting of this chapter, we're officially all caught up with what I currently have posted on tumblr. ;) I hope you've enjoyed what I have written so far!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all remember that scene at the end of _Hannibal_ (the Anthony Hopkins movie, not the show) where Hannibal is eating leftover Krendler brains on his flight, and he offers a bite to this little kid who comes over and asks for some?
> 
> _*ducks a thousand judgmental glares from the audience and runs away, cowering*_ I'm sorry! ~~I'm not sorry. I am an unrepentant monster.~~

By force of habit from other meals with Hannibal, Will seats himself to the right of the head of the table instead of at it. Milly has already started digging into her macaroni at the seat across from him and, after shooting Will what he can only describe as a look of _gratitude,_ though it is again one of those blink-and-you-miss-it kind of looks that likely no one else who did see it would understand the meaning of anyway, Hannibal seats himself at the head in Will’s place. Will doesn’t fully understand it himself, not until a moment later when Lorraine takes her spot at _his_ side instead of Milly’s.

“Milly’s a lefty,” she explains, gesturing as if Will can’t plainly see that for himself. “Don’t want to knock elbows with her.” He really should have thought of that, however.

He can’t tell if the look Hannibal is giving him now is more amused or sympathetic.

He also can’t exactly blame the other man for not wanting to be confronted with more of Lorraine’s aggressive flirting right up close. Will hopes she’ll at least rein it in for the meal because he _really_ does not want to be stuck in the middle of that, though he imagines it’s nothing to what Hannibal must have felt after that awkward introduction.

Thankfully, most of the conversation involves small talk and compliments to Hannibal’s cooking, though this latter Lorraine can’t seem to help but overdo. “A doctor _and_ you can cook like this? Boy, you really are the package deal, aren’t you?” she suggests with a wink.

Hannibal manages to take the compliment successfully in stride without acknowledging the rest of her utterly ridiculous statement, but that comment coupled with the unnecessarily loud pleased noises she keeps making around her fork are enough to make Will wish he could sink through his chair and into the floor in order to avoid further secondhand embarrassment.

All of the praise surrounding the food has another unexpected consequence, however. About halfway through the meal, Milly, having already finished her pasta and shaken her head silently at Lorraine’s question about wanting seconds, stands and hovers closer to Hannibal’s chair to glance and sniff curiously down at his plate.

She straightens then, hands clasped behind her back, jittery with excitement and curiosity, and after licking her lips looks up at the man with a look of longing and pleading that reminds Will so much of the dogs, he actually has to hide a smile behind his hand. His grin only widens further at the slightly flummoxed stare Hannibal returns, apparently not quite sure what to do about her obvious request.

_“Mirabelle Graham,”_ her mother chastises sharply. “You sit back down and mind your own plate. Quit bothering the poor man! Hannibal, I am _so_ sorry about this, I could just die of embarrassment right now.”

“It is quite alright,” Hannibal murmurs without looking away from the girl. “Would that we always had the adventurous spirit required to brave a new experience when the opportunity presents itself.” Despite his words, Hannibal remains frozen for long enough that Will considers offering Milly a bite from his own plate instead, but at last the long moment passes as Hannibal spears a cut of tenderloin onto his fork, holding the bite out in offering with his other hand hovering underneath it.

Milly leans in and takes the bite between her teeth, then leans back, chewing happily with a little smile and delighted squirm that appears to melt away whatever reservation Hannibal had. He smiles back as if her obvious enjoyment is the highest praise his food has ever received.

Years later, when Will looks back on this moment, he will wonder how in the hell he missed it then, what Hannibal Lecter always was and what would come later of the knowing. Whether or not he could have stopped it then if he’d tried, if he’d _known._

He’ll come to the same conclusion he always does when that question inevitably circles back into his thoughts. He’ll remember that even Jack, unleashing some of that “guru” wisdom he was once so well known for amongst the Academy students, had once called family a _contagion,_ and realize that none of them—not him, or Milly, or Abigail, or even Hannibal—ever stood a chance at surviving separation.

*

“I’m sorry about that. Earlier,” Will says. He and Hannibal are outside with the dogs, Lorraine having insisted adamantly that he should take them out and that she and Milly could handle the dishes themselves just fine. Will suspects she just doesn’t like them or the little hairs that have been getting on her expensive-looking suede shoes since she stepped inside.

“She used to hit on my dad’s friends when she dropped by too. Honestly, I don’t think she knows how else to talk to men who aren’t related to her.” It’s actually a little sad to think about if he ponders the reasons behind it too deeply. He tries not to.

“That must have been a cause of some consternation for him.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees. Then he realizes what Hannibal probably means by it and immediately backpedals. “I mean, _no!_ It did but…not the way you’re thinking.” Will stops pacing to turn and look at Hannibal directly, the words for some reason coming much harder to him than he thought they would. “My dad wasn’t actually…I mean, he…they weren’t…” He sighs, takes a breath, and tries again. “They were brother and sister. And before you ask, _no._ They did not have _that_ kind of relationship.”

“I wasn’t going to ask,” Hannibal counters, appearing to be miffed by the suggestion, or that Will would think so lowly of him.

“Sorry. I’m used to getting that question way more than I’d care to admit, or at least having it _thought_ at me very loudly. Doesn’t help that I’m from the South and lots of northerners have plenty of disgusting assumptions because of that too.” It’s one of the biggest reasons he avoids bringing it up, if he’s being entirely honest.

“Are these stereotypes really such a widespread problem?” Hannibal asks. Will simply gives him a _look._

“Let’s just say there’s a multitude of reasons I try so hard to bury the accent.”

“It’s shameful you’ve been made to feel that way, that you have to hide your truest self from others.” After a moment, when they’ve resumed walking, Hannibal brings them back around to the original topic. “What of your birth father then?”

“Never knew him, not sure if _she_ even knows who he is, never bothered to ask,” Will answers succinctly for him. “And that’s the honest truth this time,” he adds a bit sheepishly, remembering how he had given a similar answer once regarding his mother as well. “I don’t care who my sperm and ovum donors are, my dad is my dad, even now that he’s gone. End of story.”

“I can appreciate that sentiment.” Something about the way he says it makes Will stop again.

“You say that like you speak from experience.” He knows after their last discussion of family that Hannibal was raised by his uncle in his later formative years, but this sounds different.

Hannibal doesn’t hesitate per se, but he does take a bit of time before answering. “I had a sister. Her name was Mischa. After our parents died, I was like a father to her.”

“Was?” If he were a better person maybe, Will would hate himself for asking, for continuing to push when the subject is obviously something Hannibal doesn’t bring up often. He’s too hungry for a sliver of insight into the one man he hasn’t already come to know completely upon first meeting him to care.

“She died. Before Uncle Robertus ever learned anything had happened to our parents. Before the orphanage even.” He does not elaborate beyond that. Instead, he turns and asks rather pointedly—in revenge, perhaps, for Will’s heedless probing—“Why did you lie about knowing your mother?”

Will grimaces. “The reason is pretty dull to be honest. Habit,” he responds, shrugging.

“I rather doubt it is truly that simple. Habits must form from somewhere, after all,” Hannibal retorts, nearly ruthless in his own probing for once rather than let Will hedge around the answer like he so clearly wants to. Which is fair, considering. Doesn’t mean Will has to like it.

“You saw what she was like in there. In all honesty, when I said I didn’t know her it really wasn’t all that far from the truth. I don’t know a thing about that woman, what she does, what she’s been up to all this time. Hell, I didn’t even know before today that she had another kid!” He just barely manages to keep himself from gesturing wildly at the house as he says this, not wanting to risk either woman or child inside seeing it and realizing they’re being discussed.

“As you didn’t know, that cannot be the reason. There is more you still aren’t telling me, Will.”

_“It’s because everything is always about her!”_ Will finally snaps. “Alright!? _Everything._ She even turned my father’s fucking _funeral_ into her own personal tragedy, okay? It’s what she does. _What she_ _always does._ Is that what you wanted to hear me say?” he asks, stepping closer and baring his teeth for the other man in a snarl.

“How did she manage to do that, Will?”

Will breathes in deeply. His lip curls up higher as he thinks about it, even as his eyes grow wet. “By looking like someone had just slapped her in the face every time someone called Norman my dad,” he says. “Enough to make me wish I actually had,” he admits further. “I almost did, in fact. After I heard her correct someone for referring to me as her nephew. _Loudly.”_ He smiles then, a twisted, bitter, fragile thing. The tears in his eyes continue to sit without falling, blurring his vision, until he twists his head back and rapidly blinks them away. “It was a very close call.”

It is Hannibal’s turn to step closer now, right into Will’s personal space. “Your refusal to acknowledge her was not a simple denial then,” he says. “It was her punishment for attempting to twist the truth into a lie she found more comforting. For an absence so insidious it became its own lingering presence in your life.”

Will breathes in sharply once more. “For having the gall to pretend how I turned out had any goddamned thing to do with her.”

“It must gall you further then, for her to reappear now with another child in tow, one whose life she appears to have been there for all this time, for almost as long as she has been, once again, absent from yours,” Hannibal points out.

“I’d say it’s debatable whether that’s actually turned out to be a good thing for Milly or not,” Will retorts. “So if you’re asking if I’m jealous…”

“Not jealous,” Hannibal corrects. “Merely galled.”

Will snorts. “Alright, maybe a little bit,” he admits.

Hannibal does that thing Will hates where he appears to lift an eyebrow without actually moving one at all.

“Okay, fine. Maybe a lot.” Somehow, despite the nature of the topic at hand, he ends up saying it with a real, honest smile in his voice. It’s almost as if unloading some of the last several years of mommy issues he’s kept buried has actually helped in easing the weight of them off his shoulders a bit. Damned psychiatrists. _Damn Hannibal._

Not long after that, the two of them head back inside so Hannibal can collect his things. Will stands on the porch and waves as Hannibal pulls out of the driveway.

He feels a presence come up beside him and drops his hand automatically to pet whichever dog it is, only to startle and pull back immediately when his hand finds a head of hair much sooner than expected.

Milly stops waving as well and cranes her head to look up at him, thankfully unbothered by the random touch. She giggles, grinning widely enough this time that he can see a gap where one of the baby teeth in her top row is missing. He grins back, easily infected by her own mirth and glad of it.

“My mistake,” he tells her exaggeratedly. “I thought you were one of the dogs.”

 She play-barks at him again.

“See? You even sound like one! How am I supposed to tell, huh?” he asks, tickling under her arm until she squirms and giggles again. “How am I supposed to tell?” he repeats, and she laughs all the harder.

He keeps tickling until she pushes his hands away, having finally had enough. He refrains from taking her hand then even though part of him wants to, not wanting to risk overstimulating her.

Instead, he holds the door open for her as they head back inside, sick with the thought that she might be leaving again sooner than he’s ready. He may have just met her, but already he knows he doesn’t want to see her go.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, Hannibal was _not_ supposed to tell Will about Mischa this soon, I swear! Good lord, I expected Milly to shake the boys up a little, but not this much. They're escalating things _way_ faster than I anticipated, and we're still only on Day One! :0


	6. Chapter 6

“You really don’t own a single TV?” Lorraine asks skeptically, certain that Will must be pulling her leg. “I mean, good job on your pseudointellectual agenda of not falling slave to the almighty idiot box, Mr. Fancy Pants Hipster,” she jokes. “But there’s a certain little girl,” here she nods her head in the direction of Milly, currently bopping to some music through her headphones and gazing at the various titles on Will’s bookshelves with interest, “who may seem sweet and angelic now, but will become something of a holy terror soon enough if she ends up having to miss out on her favorite cartoons this week.”

Will laughs lightly at her warning, though not because he doubts her. He recognizes the importance of Milly sticking to routines she’s gotten used to, however inane those might seem to someone from the outside. “No agenda, I just never saw a point in getting one since I don’t watch much myself. There might be an old boxset in the attic somewhere, but I honestly doubt it works. I’ll have to pick one up after work tomorrow.” He doesn’t ask how long they’re planning on staying, not wanting to give away the fluttery, fragile _hope_ that arises at the implication that it’ll at least be longer than just a day or two, terrified if he gives voice to it that it will be trampled just as quickly as it was born.

Out of the corner of his eye, he monitors Mirabelle’s browsing choices, relaxing minutely when she settles on a book of poetry rather than one of his forensics monographs he’d noticed her lingering on just a little too long. He’ll need to find out what she likes so he can stock up on more appropriate literature as well—though if she’s as precocious as he was at that age, she’s likely the type of reader who likes to plow through novels well above her own grade level regardless of how well she actually understands them. His understanding of words had often outpaced his understanding of _concepts,_ but it never stopped him from trying, and already he sees hints of that same stubbornness in her as well.

“Get you one of them newfangled flat screens,” Lorraine teases. It takes him a moment to refocus on her words and remember what they were talking about. “Honestly, kid, it looks like your grandmother decorated this place. I’m not supposed to feel like the young and hip one next to you!”

“I like it this way,” Will defends. “It feels homey.” He doesn’t tell her that he bought the place exactly like it is, already furnished, after the previous owners decided on a whim once their grandkids were all grown to spend the rest of their retirement backpacking together across Europe and Asia. They’re a nice couple. He even gets postcards from them once in a while.

“Guess it’s true what they say, we really do try to be the opposite of our parents,” Lorraine mumbles. “Norm and I both couldn’t get out of that ratty little parish we grew up in fast enough; the only difference is in how we did it. Place had nothing to its name but a bait shop that was also a gas station and a dingy little dive bar on the edge of town. Guess who picked which routes,” she says wryly, displaying more self-awareness in this one conversation than she has in more than thirty years of Will knowing her. He isn’t sure how to respond.

Thankfully, she doesn’t linger on the subject long. “Gotta say though, you’ve done well for yourself, baby. Really, really well.” His thanks are barely out of his mouth before she adds, obviously fishing, “Must’ve cost a pretty penny to get a house like this, huh?”

The grimace escapes before he can try to hide it, not liking where he thinks this is going, though it was bound to come up sooner or later. He can’t believe he almost forgot for a few minutes who he was talking to. “It certainly wasn’t cheap,” he answers, unable to keep the little bit of snideness that wants to come out from creeping into his voice.

“Oh right, I forgot, you rich folk think it’s tacky to talk about money, don’t you?” she asks, quickly catching on to the change in his tone.

“I’m not rich, Lorraine,” he responds more tersely than he means to. He takes a breath. He can’t let himself get worked up over this. It’s not a big deal, and he already knew it was coming. “Listen, this’ll be a lot easier on both of us if you don’t dance around what you’re trying to say and just _ask.”_

Her expression shutters immediately as she catches onto his meaning. “You think I’m here for money,” she says, and he realizes then that he’s offended her. Fantastic.

“Aren’t you?” He cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, having not meant to voice them aloud.

Instead of blowing up or getting up from the couch in a huff, as he half-expects her to, her face takes on that pinched-in expression he’s already familiar with from his dad’s funeral, the one that simultaneously makes him feel guilty even though he’s done nothing wrong and makes him want to acquaint his fist with it until it goes away. “How could you assume something like that?” she asks, bottom lip quivering. There’s the dramatics he’s used to. It’s all he can do to keep himself from rolling his eyes at her performance.

“No, never mind, I know exactly where you get that idea from,” she mutters darkly after a moment. He doesn’t dare to hope she’s had another creeping moment of self-awareness, and true to form she hasn’t, uttering next instead, “Christ, should’ve known honestly. You sounded just like him when you said it.”

_“Excuse me?”_ he asks in almost a whisper, though it is not because he needs any clarification on who she means by _him._

The look she gives him is wry and not even a little bit afraid, which at least tells him his own less-than-peaceful feelings towards her aren’t making themselves apparent on his face. “Boy, I wasn’t born yesterday. Or did you really think I don’t know why my brother’s favorite nickname for me was _Rainy Day?”_

“It’s a play on your name, Lor- _raine,”_ he points out, this time not bothering to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, bet he thought he was _so slick_ coming up with that one.”

“You’re not seriously getting worked up over a dad pun, are you?” He makes a conscious decision not to tell her that as a kid he used to sing _“Rain, Rain, Go Away”_ to himself on certain occasions, or that those occasions were never on _actual_ rainy days, since those he actually enjoyed. He’s not out to deliberately hurt her no matter how much she may annoy him.

In spite of his efforts, her wry smile does start to turn a bit watery anyway. It takes almost a full minute of silence between them for him to realize it’s probably the phrase ‘dad pun’ that did it. _For fuck’s sake…_

“I tried once to take you home with me,” she blurts suddenly out of nowhere.

“You… _what?”_ he asks, not sure where this is coming from all of a sudden or that he even heard her correctly.

“When you were still little,” she says. “About Milly’s age, maybe a bit younger.” Almost unconsciously, both of them turn their heads to look at Milly, sprawled out on the floor next to the dogs, still wearing her headphones and flipping through Will’s book on Emily Dickinson.

“I showed up unannounced,” she continues, her brittle smile returning. “Norman was home instead of out on a job for some reason, but you were at school. I didn’t realize it was a weekday. Silly me,” she adds, going for a bit of self-deprecation to try to lighten the mood, albeit unsuccessfully. She clears her throat. “I told him I was there to pick you up and he…he _laughed_ at me.” Her lips purse into a frown at the memory. “Laughed and laughed until he realized I was serious, and then just like that he wasn’t laughing anymore.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Will asks her quietly.

“Because you need to realize he wasn’t this _perfect saint_ you’ve obviously made him out to be in your head,” she snaps. She looks up and waits until he returns her gaze steadily before she says, “Will, he _threatened_ me.”  After a beat, she adds, “That was also the first time he ever gave me money since I dropped you off as a baby.”

Will wants to laugh at the huge tonal whiplash between those two statements, but she’s still very clearly agitated so he doesn’t. “That, ah, doesn’t seem like much of a threat to me,” he can’t help but point out, however.

She gives him a very strange look as though he is being naïve for not understanding the connection. “He offered the money to make me shut up about being there to get you at first, and when that didn’t work, that’s when the threat came. I’ll never forget what he said neither. He told me that I could still visit cos I was family, that I could take the money and there’d be more of it every time I came back, but if I tried to take _you…”_ She pauses, glancing over at Mirabelle briefly to ensure she’s not listening. “He pointed at a shovel stuck in the ground next to his toolshed and said, ‘If you try to take him, that’s the only way you’ll be getting home.’”

_Good,_ Will thinks viciously. Viscerally, with his whole heart, _Thank God._ Somewhere buried even deeper down, in a darkened corner of his psyche which still believes there might be an afterlife, _Thank you, Daddy._

“I didn’t know that,” is all he trusts himself to say out loud, carefully neutral.

“I actually gave serious thought to sneaking in that night and grabbing you anyway while he was asleep,” she admits, adjusting her skirt in a nervous, guilty gesture. He twitches but says nothing, choosing not to reveal how grating and more than a little disturbing it is to be talked about in such a casually proprietary manner, as if she were merely out to reclaim a _belonging_ of hers. He doesn’t want to get into an argument in front of Mirabelle. “Only didn’t cos I thought you might scream,” she adds further with an unhappy chuckle.

“You’re probably right,” he tells her. He can picture it all too easily, her climbing in through a window under the cover of darkness like a monster straight out of his nightmares. Hell, now that it’s in his head, he has to worry what kind of dreams it might manifest tonight.

A sideways glance at her face tells him that he was probably supposed to _disagree_ on that point, and he bites his tongue against telling her that she shouldn’t have said anything if she knew she was going to be hurt by the confirmation and take it personally. It isn’t exactly fair of him to expect her to have a better rein on her emotions than he normally does on his own.

She valiantly fights those feelings off so that the next time he looks at her properly, her usual unnaturally sunny smile is back. He’s never known how to feel about that personally, whether he should be more awed or disgusted by the seamlessness of the act. He gets not wanting another person to know what one is really feeling perfectly well, but he’s never understood the near pathological and almost uniquely neurotypical desire to hide one’s emotions behind a patently false cheerful disposition. Maybe it only rubs him the wrong way because of how uniquely qualified he is to be able to tell when it’s fake.

Then, with a level of self-mastery that he actually does envy—even if he suspects she’s perfected it over the years through no small doses of self-delusion as well—the smile shifts just as seamlessly from blatantly false into something much more genuine, as if all the previous discomfort from their conversation up to now never happened.

“Baby, come over here for a minute,” she says loudly with a wave to get Mirabelle’s attention. Milly looks up and stares blankly for a minute before her mother’s meaning registers, then sets the earphones down carefully on the open spine of the book to hold her place and stands.

Lorraine smooths her skirt again and pats it to signal that she wants Milly to sit on her lap. “Scoot closer, baby,” she says, addressing Will this time, “I want to get a picture of all of us together.” Will grits his teeth but obliges as Lorraine deftly fishes her phone out of her purse with one hand and shifts around so that Milly now sits half on her lap and half on Will’s to get them all in the same shot.

“Come on, you’re supposed to smile!” Lorraine insists with an exaggerated pout that she must be used to other men finding endearing. Will tries, but it’s hard to look anything but grumpy and discomfited when he has to be close enough to her for their knees to touch.

That is until Milly surprises him with a tickle attack under his arm in much the same way he did outside earlier, startling him into twisting his head to look up at her with an uncontrollable giggle. She returns the laugh and grin automatically, unreservedly, and Lorraine seizes the opportunity that grants her to snap the picture.

“That was underhanded and sneaky,” Will declares, unable to keep his grin buried under mock-offense when Milly slides off their laps and looks back at him with a decidedly mischievous snicker.

“Got the job done though,” Lorraine concurs. “Atta girl,” she tells her daughter with a wink. “This is definitely gonna be my new background,” she says, already tapping keys on her screen to change the necessary settings. “Tell me your number, hon,” she adds, fingertips brushing his shoulder in a casual gesture he allows this once since he is still in good humor enough for the time being not to flinch. “I’ll text it to you.”

Will tells her and pulls his phone out of his pocket when the notification pings a moment later. It is a good picture, he has to concede, perfectly capturing the shared mirth between him and Milly, with Lorraine gazing ahead but looking at them both through the screen with pride and motherly affection.

“Thanks, tater-tots!” she tells them both, and Will crinkles his nose at being included in that but doesn’t say anything in protest. He goes to bed upstairs later that night thinking that maybe this visit won’t be so bad as the rest and that, just this once, things will turn out alright.

*

Tendrils snare into Will’s skin like fish hooks, peeling strips of flesh away in raking, dripping red lines down his back as he struggles on hands and knees to crawl away from the force inexorably dragging him back towards the vast, black void of nothing outside his bedroom window, until in the next moment he suddenly wakes, reaching back with both hands to feel his back through his shirt, damp and clinging with sweat, and check for injuries there.

Finding nothing, he slumps forward and drops his head in his hands, not as relieved to find himself still in one whole piece as he would like to be. Morning light peeks in through the curtains, letting him know he at least got more sleep than usual last night, even if it doesn’t feel like it with the way his head pounds. He stays like that a few more minutes before finally rising and shuffling into the adjoining bathroom.

The shower cleans away the sweat but actually makes him more tired instead of waking him up further. He considers going back to bed but discards the idea, deciding he should let the dogs out and at least make some attempt to be sociable since he has guests in the house. Remembering at the last minute to throw on some flannel pants over his boxers, he treads down the stairs as quietly as he can manage while still half-asleep in case one or both of them decided to sleep in.

The futon is empty but not made yet, covers left rumpled in the center of the mattress. He hears movement in the kitchen, but before heading there he cracks the front door open enough to let seven eager canines barrel their way outside, turning his head away and squinting from the light that lets itself in before he’s awake and coherent enough to handle it.

He smiles tiredly at the girl sitting at his breakfast table with a bowl of cereal set out in front of her but doesn’t say anything, not much for morning pleasantries and confident enough that she won’t mind. He turns on the coffee maker, already prepped with grounds and water since last night, and stares dumbly at it while it quickly heats up. Lorraine is not in the kitchen with them yet and must already be putting her face on in the bathroom mirror, he figures.

Except, the thought gathers slow and sticky in his mind like taffy, that he had not noticed any light coming out from under the bathroom door as he walked by it.

“Hey, Milly, where’s Lorr—where’s Mom?” he asks after swallowing past the morning dryness in his throat to wet it. He turns around so he can see her answer, since he doesn’t have the knowledge he needs to understand her verbal responses yet.

Milly continues to eat without looking up as though she hadn’t heard him, but the next time her spoon dips into the milk, it touches the bottom of the bowl with a loud _clink_ and returns at a jerky angle to her mouth, where she chews her next bite almost aggressively.

He blinks rapidly a few times and straightens, her strange, surly attitude and the smell of hazelnut coffee filling up the room doing more to wake him up than the shower and trek downstairs had done. “Milly…?” he tries again.

She half-drops, half- _throws_ her spoon back into the bowl with a discordant clatter that causes both of them to jump and shudder, though Milly recovers more quickly from the noise, enough to glare dispassionately at the piece of silverware submerged in the dregs of her bowl as if it were at fault. Then she pushes her chair back with a scrape that grates in just the right sort of wrong way that it travels up Will’s spine like a bad chill, forcing him to squeeze his eyes closed and roll his neck sharply to get the feeling out.

When he follows her to the living room, she already has her backpack halfway unzipped, still sitting in the spare armchair pushed back against the wall. It is the _only_ item sitting in that chair, where before it had been surrounded by a few knock-off designer luggage bags.

A curious weight settles suspended in Will’s stomach, like the high lull at the top of a steep hill before a rapid fall. Without making a conscious decision to do so, he walks to the window and shifts the curtain aside to glance at his driveway.

Only his Volvo sits there.

He stands without movement, without blinking, almost without breath for so long that Mirabelle has to poke him to get his attention back. He looks down and takes the envelope being jabbed against his elbow, and without a word Mirabelle spins around on her feet and goes back into the kitchen. He listens for a second to the sound of her starting to wash the dishes she left behind before glancing back at the envelope in his hand.

It has been smooshed flat enough to inform him it’s been sitting in Milly’s bag since at least before yesterday, and he has to swallow down the ugly laugh that threatens to bubble out of his throat at his own naiveté. It’s addressed to fucking _Billy_ too, which is enough to make him want to tear it up without opening it. He resists, and rips the end of it open with shaking fingers instead.

He already knows what’s on the page before he reads it, but it still takes several passes of his eyes before Lorraine’s familiar scrawl becomes words his brain can process to confirm his suspicions. Buried between the lines of “I’m sorry” and “I love you both” and “this is only temporary,” between a mountain of sickening saccharine endearments and false assurances, is the truth. Mirabelle is Will’s responsibility now.

She did it again.

She fucking _did it again._

And yet, despite the thoughts churning in a circle over and over again in his head, anger is not the strongest emotion to win out.

Mirabelle is _his_ responsibility now. She’s here to stay. There’s a little bit of panicked terror that comes with that knowledge as it sinks in, but even this barely registers against the backdrop of _elation_ that nestles warmly within his bones at the realization that his first _real_ familial connection since his dad isn’t going anywhere.

Of course, what Will feels doesn’t matter. The important question here—how is _Milly_ handling it?

He goes back to the kitchen and finds her just standing there. The dishes are washed and put away on the drying rack. The coffee pot is already full and ready to be poured. Milly stands there, barefoot but dressed otherwise, in a cute little unicorn jumper and jeans with her hair down in loose curls around her face. It occurs to him then that she’s probably been up for hours, alone in the house except for the dogs, waiting for him to get out of bed and come down.

It occurs to him next how much _older_ she is than Will was in this exact scenario, old enough to feel lost, abandoned, _betrayed._ He feels it too as he looks at her, albeit dulled now—she did most of her raging before they ever got to Wolf Trap, maybe before they ever crossed state lines, back when Lorraine first told her she was taking her to stay with her big brother “just for a little while” and she _knew_ the woman was lying. She knew yesterday and had still been able to giggle and play with the dogs and smile at Will like he was family even though he was practically a stranger. In fact she’d engaged more with him, and even with Hannibal in the brief time he was here, than she had with her mother all day, as if she were already gone.

When most children would be in tears now that the dreaded event has come to pass, Milly has already resigned herself to it. That’s not to say there won’t be more crying and screaming later, only that for the moment she has no more use for tears or screams and is now simply waiting. Waiting for _him_ to process what’s happened and make a decision.

Part of him still wants to cry and rage, afterimages of her initial reaction still casting shadows on the walls in the theatre of his mind, but now is not the time for it. She doesn’t need him to empathize with _that,_ she needs to know what happens _now._ That’s what she’s waiting for like a prisoner at the executioner’s block, for her _fate_ to be decided.

He can save the emotional meltdown for Dr. Lecter’s office later. The other man will _love it._

Will kneels down across from Milly like he did yesterday and looks up at her, ignoring the cold kitchen tiles which are far less forgiving on his knees than the living room floor had been. “I know you have no reason to take my word for it,” he begins. “We don’t really know each other yet and you’ve been lied to before. But even if you don’t believe me now, I want you to know you can trust me when I say that…that I will _never do something like this to you,”_ he promises, voice shaking a bit at the end and vision blurring until he blinks it back to normal. “Ever. This is your home now, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t know if this is anything like what other adults would be saying to a child in the same situation, has never known how to talk to kids differently than he would other people, and he’s not going to start by trying to talk down to her either. He’s not going to fill her head with pretty reassurances about her mother’s love or wanting what’s best for her, because he remembers how much he hated hearing those excuses when he was in her shoes.

At some point his eyes have closed again, trying to keep a rein on himself in front of her and be the strong, grown-up presence she needs. He opens them again when arms come around his shoulders in a loose hug, Milly’s chin resting on top of his head. The tears threaten again but don’t fall, and he returns the hug just as lightly, both of them trying not to overwhelm the other too fast. It strengthens slowly to tight enough but not too tight, just enough for the pressure to be genuinely comforting and not the light phantom touch it started off as.

After awhile they pull apart, and Will remembers he’s supposed to be returning to his classes today. Clearly, that’s not going to happen now.

“I’m stepping out onto the porch for a minute, so I can watch the dogs and call in to work,” he tells her, wanting to make sure it’s very clear to her that he’s coming _right back._ “Then I’ll get dressed so we can pick out a TV and some stuff for your room today, okay?” She perks up a little at the mention of getting her own room and he smiles, grateful now that he has two bedrooms upstairs even if one is more of a glorified closet with no bed. There thankfully isn’t much stored there, so it should be no trouble to move it all out today and set up a bedframe.

He sits on the porch steps and thinks about calling Alana to explain what’s happened, but ultimately decides just to text her something vague for now instead. He’ll tell her everything soon enough—he is no longer the only person in the house who should probably be seeing a therapist, and among Alana’s specialties are family trauma and child psychology.

After another moment of contemplating, he then dials the number still sitting in his inbox that hasn’t been saved to his contacts. It rings out and goes to voicemail at first, so he hangs up and tries again.

It goes to voicemail again, but this time after only the _second_ ring. He barks out a laugh as the automated message plays out and waits this time for the beep.

“Hi there, _Mom,_ it’s me,” he says cheerfully. “Just called to say I got your letter and, _aheh,”_ he chuckles, “and to let you know that by the time you work up the courage to actually listen to this, I’ll already have the necessary paperwork filed to make the full custody transfer official.” He’s positive Hannibal will be more than happy to contact one of his own excellent lawyers to make that happen. “I expect there’ll be no contest, under the circumstances.”

He pauses a second to swallow. “And hey, I was thinking, that funny story you told me last night about Dad?” His smile sharpens. “It’s only fair that you should know, I’m not half as generous or forgiving as he was. One thing he said does still apply though, I’m sure you know the one,” he says.

“Don’t come back.” On that note, he hangs up, and whistles for the dogs to follow him back inside.

After that, he deletes her number.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcanon that Will learned how to sass from his dad. Also, after at least one of Lorraine's visits, this happened:
> 
> **Norman:** *hands her a wad of cash* Here ya go, Rainy Day! Child support payment.  
>  **Lorraine:** *takes it with a confused expression* Isn't that backwards? It's supposed to be in support of the child. _**not that she would ever pay, obviously**_  
>  **Norman:** This _is_ in support of my child. *slides on shades*
> 
> get rekt, lady xD


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author:** *commits the grievous Bad Writer Sin of inserting a brief Author Avatar cameo into the chapter, albeit for a very silly throwaway joke*  
>  **Will Graham:** *in a distinct and eloquent Will Graham manner, and not at all in the overblown internet speak said author is going to translate it into anyway for similarly poor comedic effect* What level of self-drag...??  
>  **Author:** This from the man who quoted freaking _Sesame Street_ whilst describing a murder. You have no room to talk about my sense of humor.
> 
> So...this chapter kind of got away from me in certain places. But, um, enjoy?

Will remembers to send Hannibal a text as well as he pulls into the parking lot of the closest department store he knows in the next town over, fully aware that the man is likely in the middle of a session and won’t respond for a bit. He is surprised, then, to receive a phone call just a few minutes after, letting Milly run ahead to look at the variety of cartoon-printed bedspreads with the eagerness only a child (or a pop culture obsessed adult, judging by the delight on the nearby twenty-something hipster’s face at finding a Spider-Man set in a Queen size) could possibly have.

“Hello?” he answers, watching Milly from a short distance away with one hand in his pocket.

_“Will,”_ says Hannibal on the other end, a barely-there thread of concern and curiosity in his voice, causing Will’s brows to furrow, puzzled by its presence. _“Did anything happen which we should perhaps discuss in person before our next session?”_

“Technically, I guess..?” Will drawls, still a little confused by the _way_ he asks until it clicks, remembering how he had phrased his request _—‘Know a good lawyer I could talk to asap, today possibly?’_ —and laughing when he only now realizes how that might have come across. “Um, it’s nothing bad,” he quickly reassures. “Just, uh, looking for someone who can draw up some pretty ironclad custody papers and get them rushed before…” He pauses, takes a breath, in less good humor once he decides to finish that sentence honestly, “Before Lorraine has a chance to realize she made a huge mistake and hurries back to stop me.”

The silence that follows as Hannibal seems to take his time to absorb that information prompts Will to inject a bit of humor back into the conversation before it grows stifling. “It’s good to know I really can count on you in any situation though. How’s the saying go? ‘A friend helps you move, a real friend helps you move a body,’” he jokes.

_“Is that a common saying in American English? How delightful,”_ Hannibal murmurs, clearly distracted nonetheless. _“Is Mirabelle with you now, Will?”_ he asks, returning to the matter at hand.

“Yeah, she’s trying to decide between a Moana duvet or a Pikachu one right now,” he says, observing the girl’s minor dilemma with a smile. Even Will, out of the loop as he is with popular media these days, can recognize the newest Disney princess to grace theatres recently and the iconic, pointy-eared, yellow mouse creature. He has to wonder if the esteemed Hannibal Lecter can say the same though and bites his lip at the thought of being the one to explain it to him, hoping if so that the other man will wait until they’re in the same room to ask so Will can see the look on his face when he tells him.

“Grab both,” he tells the girl, pulling the phone just far enough from his mouth to make it apparent he’s talking to her now, while still allowing Lecter to hear and know that they haven’t been disconnected. He grins wider at the visible shock in her expression. “You’ll need a second set anyway to change the bed into when the other one’s in the wash.”

_“Careful, Will, you may just end up spoiling her,”_ Hannibal warns in a light tone that sounds anything _but_ disapproving.

“Good. She could use some spoiling in her life,” Will rejoins. He thinks of the single backpack sitting in his house full to bursting with nothing but clothes, a couple of toys, and a handheld game console that appears to be every worldly possession Mirabelle owns, surrounded on all sides last night by a multitude of ugly but expensive-looking pink bags—one of which had apparently been just for makeup and another for _shoes—_ and grits his teeth.

_“Lorraine seems in possession of quite a lot of baggage,”_ Hannibal quips, his own thoughts clearly in sync enough with Will’s to immediately catch onto the reason for his change in tone, _“and yet, in her haste, leaves behind the most priceless treasure of all.”_ After a beat, he adds, _“Another of them, that is.”_

“It was indeed a _hasty_ retreat,” Will says, ignoring the last part and stepping away since Mirabelle doesn’t need to overhear him talking about their mother and have her mood soured again, his words careful and clipped. “So hasty, in fact, I’m not sure whether she slept at all or simply waited for my bedroom light to go off and booked it as soon as enough time had passed for me to definitely be out.”

_“…I see,”_ Hannibal says after another lengthy pause. He seems full of those today. Lorraine has that effect on people, Will supposes, the extent of her vulgarity shocking even to the usually unruffled psychiatrist. After a moment, he carries on. _“Continue your shopping with Milly, Will. Take your time. There’s no need to rush anything. I will meet with my attorney and draft these papers with him myself, so that all you’ll need to do is come by this afternoon to read over them and sign.”_

“I can’t—you don’t have to do that!” Will protests. “You’re at work, you shouldn’t have to drop what you’re doing just to help me.”

_“I won’t be dropping anything,”_ Hannibal reassures. _“I have a relatively light schedule today. You should be with Milly today, Will. This is not the time to leave her alone for hours while you pore over dry documents, no matter their necessity. Leave it to me, Will. I will personally see to it that this charlatan who dares to call herself a mother doesn’t have a leg to stand on in court.”_

Will’s eyebrows climb almost into his hairline at that turn of phrase. He has heard the man’s harsher criticisms of Jack Crawford before and is not surprised, as some would be, that under the mild exterior the good doctor possesses a bit of a mean streak against those he deems deserving of it. He has never heard contempt so unvarnished as to result in blatant name-calling, however.

“I—thank you, Doctor Lecter. Really. I don’t know what else to say.” He looks over to Milly once more, sees her struggle to hold onto more than one bulky package of bedsheets, and smiles again as he walks over to grab a cart for them from the front, keeping her in his line of sight as he does so. He thinks he already may have smiled more in the span of two days—less really, as it is still only morning—than he has in the months previous. “I gotta go. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll be right over.”

Hannibal promises to do exactly that and the two of them hang up. He pushes the basket back over to Mirabelle and helps her deposit the bedsheets into it. Next on his agenda is picking out a television and a mattress, though he won’t be opposed to just about anything else that catches her eye along the way. He hadn’t been kidding about being more than happy to spoil her a bit. Material accumulation and retail therapy are by no means healthy coping mechanisms—and apparent again in his willingness to try anyway is that pesky habit he has of buying things for others when he’s upset, a potent cocktail of the side effects of his empathy as well as growing up poor—but it’s important that she feel at home in Wolf Trap, and seeing her surrounded by things that make her comfortable and happy is an easy enough place to start.

It might be a good idea while he’s transferring storage out of the spare room to the barn today to look for his old weighted blanket in case he still has it somewhere. It’s been years since he’s made use of it himself—normally when he finds himself in that state of agitation and overstimulation that signals he’s approaching meltdown if he doesn’t handle himself very, very carefully, a particular creeping sort of itch not unlike the electric buzzing of a loud, loose filament in an old, yellowing lightbulb will spread slowly like an oil spill just beneath the tensed surface of his skin, and when that happens he can’t let _anything_ touch him without it hurting like he’ll unravel and fall apart at the seams, much less something heavy and nearly smothering as a poor man’s straitjacket, more liable to send him spiraling sooner into panic than provide him comfort.

On those days the only way to find relief is for Will to exercise, to expel the skin-buzzing like pent-up stored energy, or at the very least to make his muscles so aching and sore that it drowns out the other feeling. When even that is not enough, he’ll cloister himself inside his blank-walled (and until last night, rarely used) bedroom with the lights out and curtains tightly drawn, standing and swaying in the dark until some semblance of _Will Graham_ returns him to himself.

There are other times as well when Will needs the exact opposite—when he craves pressure and warmth his own two arms are not strong enough or wide enough to provide—but even then it’s not his thick childhood comforter that he reaches for. Alana had once referred to his penchant for collecting strays as one of his “good” habits, seeing in it something altruistic and almost noble, and Will had decided not to correct her by demonstrating just how selfish his motives for keeping such a large pack actually were.

Often enough he’s come home, dropping his stuff on the desk and kicking his shoes off, and lain down on the rug with a pillow or unlaundered blanket over his face to block out the light, his body a rigid, narrow line from head to feet and arms crossed over his chest like a corpse in a coffin—imagery which should, considering his line of work, be disturbing, yet is instead rather soothing in itself. Often enough, in fact, that he needn’t even click his tongue to call his curious animals over anymore. They immediately recognize the crossing of his arms—the last movement he’ll make at all aside from the rise and fall of his chest once he’s settled on the floor—as invitation to form a literal dogpile on top of their peculiar human and happily comply. He’s even napped like that on accident before, something his stiff neck and shoulders will protest afterwards, but never enough for him to stop doing it.

He’s never told anyone about this particular habit, not even Doctor Lecter. He knows entirely how childish it is, more embarrassing than the impression he gives of a sweaty, hermit-like alcoholic with bad dreams. At least _that_ kind of unhealthy coping is the sort Alana Blooms and Jack Crawfords of the world know to expect of an unstable but nonetheless _grown_ fucking adult.

Better they see him as a tragically broken pony than an immature one. Better, in truth, that Jack had been dismissive when he’d explained that his horse was hitched closer to asperger’s and autistics than psychopathy, preferring seemingly to see Will’s empathy as something mystical and _other,_ rather than a naturally-occurring trait of the parallel but divergent neuropathways and associations his brain developed from most other children’s. “Empathy disorder” his colleagues choose to call it, like the big, scary ‘A’ word which describes _literally the same symptoms_ is too heavy and impossible to consider, too straightforward because for some reason they _like_ to view it as somehow nebulous to the point of almost magical, or perhaps just too _simple_ for a unique and “gifted” individual like Will Graham.

Still, he’s been treated like a child because of his diagnosis enough times before to know which he prefers. At least he’s taken seriously by most of the FBI, something that couldn’t always be said by his previous employers. Even the New Orleans precinct had urged a “parting of ways” after one little stabbing because it was apparently all the proof they needed that he “couldn’t handle the job.” Never mind the fact that there were other officers still on their payroll who had been shot more than once and gotten _promoted_ almost as a direct result.

_“An inability to pull the trigger,”_ Jack had quoted almost verbatim from Will’s file after he shot Hobbs. It still rankles.

How much worse might it be on Milly as she gets older, Will wonders? Will her anger burn and thrum, much as it did for Will, the older she gets and still hears the _same_ condescending tones at eighteen that she does at eight? At twenty-eight? _Thirty_ -eight? Will they call her unstable too when her autism does not magically disappear with age?

A concern for another time, he realizes. For now, he lets the tug on his sleeve draw his attention to a row of televisions along the wall to choose from. He watches the same event unfold on all of them simultaneously, in vivid hues and stark clarity, a single red daisy pushing up through the dirt in sped-up time and unfurling its petals in a wide fan to soak up the bright, white rays of the sun.

*

By the time they are almost ready to head back to Wolf Trap, Will has a cart full of bedsheets, a decently sized television, a dress and a couple of sweaters (these last of which Milly had refused at first, by hiding her face shyly behind her hands and shaking her head with her whole body when Will had unhesitatingly told her to pick what she wanted in her size, until another peek at his face through her fingers told her that he genuinely meant it). She also holds with tight, unbridled delight in her arms one of the creepiest yet oddly endearing-looking stuffed animals Will has ever seen.

Her startled happiness when he deliberately slowed his pace as they got close to the toys had not surprised him. What had surprised him was her return from an oversized bin of teddy bears and other soft plushies with this… _thing_ …that looked kind of like someone had taken the Pikachu he had recognized, broken its body in a few places to let its bones reset crooked, and crudely drawn a nightmarish approximation of its face on with marker.

Mirabelle must have either not seen or was unfazed by the confusion and mild distaste he was fairly certain he hadn’t hidden well, because she simply beamed up at him and squeaked, “Mimikyu!” It was the first word she’d said since last night. It surprised him how much that affected him too, and how quickly that fact alone endeared him to the weird little thing after all.

It had been knee-jerk as well, the way he had immediately parroted the word right back at her, in a perfect copy of her own inflection, “Mimikyu!” His echolalia was usually _a bit_ more subtle than that, easily able to be passed off as snark or mockery under the right circumstances even, but when the original speaker was a girl of already few words, that was clearly not going to remain the case for long.

Feeling out the shape of its name with his own lips, in his own voice, had also allowed him to pick up on its double meaning. He’d made a noise between a huff and a groan, wondering if it was standard procedure for all Pokémon to be given such punny names. And Mirabelle, bless her, had almost a devious glint in her eye as if she’d _known_ which automatic response her exclamation would elicit and had planned for it.

She’d even lifted the toy high above her head and held it next to his own to look at man and Pokémon side by side—with Will bending low enough to better accommodate the gesture given her short reach, of course, even while he affected his best flat, unimpressed look at the comparison. Understandably, she didn’t buy it for a second. She did, however, hold it there for another long moment before slowly pulling it back—nearly an hour later he can still feel the phantom touch of its lopsided ear brushing past his face and giving a gentle almost-tug to one of his curls—and holding it up against her own face as well. _See?_

Will had only nodded dumbly, throat clicking as he swallowed dryly. He saw. He’d seen yesterday as well, but hadn’t been certain before that moment how well she recognized it too. He thought morbidly of mushrooms, how they formed connections a human mind couldn’t _—“Yours can.”—_ but for a number of obvious reasons chose not to share that particular analogy with Mirabelle.

He’d only been able to collect himself by straightening, asking in a neutral tone if she wanted to carry it or put it in the basket, and purposefully heading towards the mattresses with a short nod after she clutched the toy close to her chest in answer. He wonders if Doctor Lecter would laugh if Will told him he almost cried because of a damn child’s toy, or if some part of him would understand. (Well. He doesn’t wonder, not really. He knows. Hannibal wouldn’t judge him.)

The mattresses take much longer than everything else, not that Will minds the excuse to keep staying out of the house for awhile. Milly insists on testing each one by bouncing on it before she makes a choice, though thankfully enough she does this sitting rather than standing so the nearby salesclerk only glares in their direction with mild disapproval instead of barking at Will to tell her to stop. Any other day and he would, gently explaining that even her relatively tame bounces would dislodge the tucked blankets and pillows on display enough to cause unnecessary extra work for the staff. Any other day, just…not today. Not after everything else.

It’s probably a terrible way to assuage his guilt, but when the clerk isn’t looking, Will stuffs a twenty in one of the folds of a particularly ruffled blanket where they’ll find it later when they do a sweep behind him and Milly to reset the displays. At least he doesn’t have to deal with them directly since each display mattress has a stack of removable tags and he just has to take one with him to the cashier once Milly finally picks a bed.

They can’t deliver it until sometime around mid-afternoon tomorrow, which makes him thankful that he already has two beds even if one is only a crummy old futon. It does mean he’ll have to take off a third day in a row though. He’ll email his students that class is canceled tomorrow rather than beg Alana to take on the extra load yet again. They’ll probably be happy for the break.

He needs the extra time too, he realizes between bites of a deli sandwich when they stop for lunch on the way home. Installing a TV and setting Milly up in her own room barely scratches the surface of all the things he has to do to make the transition as smooth and official as possible. He has to look into schools now, and _Christ,_ he hopes there are shot records and other docs in her bag, though even if there are he’ll still need to make doctor’s and dentist’s appointments just for checkups…

Guiltily, the thought of asking Hannibal for even more help with all the red tape flits briefly across his mind. Given how readily the man offered his services today, he may not even need to _ask,_ he could just casually mention some of the items on his to-do list and—but _no._ He shuts down that line of thinking immediately. Will needs to be a fucking grown-up about this. He’ll figure it out and handle it himself, no matter how much the wheels of bureaucracy ratchet up their own special brand of anxiety that looking at dead bodies for a living can’t even hold a candle to.

He looks up as she noisily slurps up the last of her fountain drink through her straw and finds her looking at him curiously. He smiles at her reassuringly and feels it strengthen his resolve. Whatever he has to do to make this work, it’s worth it. _She’s_ worth it.

Milly smiles back, swinging her legs back and forth under the table, looking for all the world like any other carefree child to the casual observer. She’s not carefree, Will knows, far from it, but the fact that she’s capable of this much so soon after her entire world has changed makes him feel hopeful. It’s not a feeling he’s normally comfortable allowing in _—“Abandonment requires expectation,” had those not been his exact words to Lecter before?_ —but to give Milly the happiness she deserves, it’s practically mandatory now. So for her sake, he’ll figure out a way to make it work somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hannibal Lecter:** *almost blatantly flirts with Will over the phone, calling him a _fucking treasure_ right into his ear hole, and makes it pretty apparent that he would gladly help Will get away with murder if just given the fucking chance*  
>  **Will Graham:** *proceeds to barely fucking notice...well, kinda*
> 
> Poor Hannibal, he's over here ready to devote hours of his life to mind-numbing legal paperwork all for Will's sake! If that isn't true love, I don't know what is! You think I jest, but seriously...that's a truer sign of love right there than just committing the occasional teensy little murder for your beloved now and then. Remember those s1 days when this sucker used to be able to trick us into believing he had even a single ounce of fucking chill where Will Graham is concerned? Heh, let's see how that holds up now. ;)
> 
> Also, I [bought the Mimikyu doll Milly picks out for myself](https://aglassroseneverfades.tumblr.com/tagged/yes-i-legit-buy-plushies-that-remind-me-of-my-own-dang-characters) but I swear I had no idea it actually existed when I came up with the idea for the story! Naturally, as soon as I saw it in the store, I had to snatch it up right away. I mean, _obviously,_ right? xD


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Hannibal appears! (Again.) He and Will talk about some things and don't talk about some others. At least, not yet.

“I hope you don’t mind, I took a few additional liberties,” Hannibal ducks his head confessionally, returning from helping Milly climb carefully up the ladder to gaze at his books on the second floor, and opens one of his desk drawers to hand Will two separate sheets of paper just as the younger man sits to look over the custody documents.

Will frowns thoughtfully at the first note, which simply itemizes the relevant details for an appointment with a pediatrician—an acquaintance from Hannibal’s former hospital days before she left to start her own practice, the man explains at Will’s questioning look—but practically chokes on air when he takes a glance at the second one. It’s an entire _list_ of schools between Will’s house and Quantico, with contact information and quick notes on each one’s strengths and weaknesses, which Will can honestly admit he wouldn’t have even known _how_ to research on his own. That doesn’t stop him from glaring almost accusatorily at the psychiatrist still standing next to Will’s—well, actually _his_ —chair.

“I had a cancellation this afternoon and needed something to do while this was being finalized,” Hannibal says, rapping his knuckles lightly on top of the stack of legal papers in front of Will. From anyone else it might have come across as sheepish, apologetic, or at the very least a little worried about having possibly overstepped. Will has his doubts that Lecter ever experiences those feelings, and appreciates that he doesn’t manufacture an approximation of one for Will’s benefit now. They both know he would see right through it anyway.

“Wolf Trap has a public school district, you know,” Will drawls, because damn him if he could ever just say _thank you_ when someone goes out of their way for him without needling.

“Forgive my bias, but I’m concerned the officials of a state-funded institute in such a small town would be ill-equipped to deal with the likes of you at their PTA meetings,” Hannibal teases lightly. Will hears the true underlying concern he had been tactful enough not to say aloud—that they wouldn’t know how to handle a student like Milly.

“I’ve lived in places of similar size before, smaller ones too. You may have a point,” Will concedes, though most of his issues stemmed from well-meaning but ill-informed counselors trying to push him to socialize more, while the other students quickly lost their fascination with “the new kid” and viewed him instead with distrust if not outright dislike.

He looks up at the girl browsing curiously through Lecter’s shelves much as she had done through Will’s yesterday, although with far more instinctive care, her fingers brushing along the edges of the shelves themselves to keep her place but never once straying to any of the book spines or decorative knickknacks on display. “If not for my workload, I’d probably just homeschool her,” he admits quietly.

“Abigail Hobbs was homeschooled,” Hannibal points out, his usual neutral gaze a bit sharpened, assessing.

Will returns the look, mirroring it when he would rather turn it into a sneer and open his mouth to let something acidic drip out. Trust Lecter to use a child’s presence as an excuse to turn this into another analytical ambush Will cannot snarl and bite his way out of. “Believe it or not, not everything I do comes back to my association with Garret Jacob Hobbs.”

His sort-of-psychiatrist accepts the rebuke with a tilt of his head that appears almost apologetic, his expression not so much softening as smoothing out. Will thinks it might have been a test then, and bites back a sarcastic question on how he should expect to be graded.

“Many would posit that the social development gained in a classroom of peers outweighs the potential academic benefit of tutelage under a direct guardian.”

Will looks up again from the stack of documents, wondering if the man will at some point stop talking long enough to let him actually get through it. “Would this ‘many’ be the same eponymous ‘they’ who argue that inattentiveness can be solved with a good spanking, or that kids who have problems with socializing will just grow out of it as long as you force them often enough?” Will quirks a sardonic brow. “No offense, but maybe let the adult who remembers what little shits kids could be to someone they sussed out as ‘different’ make the judgement calls here.”

“Do you suppose that simply because I do not share yours and Mirabelle’s particular way of thinking, I did not experience my own undue share of bullying as a child?” Will thinks about that question, _really_ thinks about it, and realizes that if anyone he knows is unique enough to have pinged some asshole kids’ “weirdness” radars growing up, it would be Hannibal Lecter. The psychiatrist lets it slip by rhetorically without waiting for an answer, continuing with, “I was not arguing against the idea, in any case. Merely offering an alternate point of view. I myself was educated at home by tutors my aunt and uncle selected during my first year of living with them. They sent me on to boarding school once they felt I was sufficiently ready.”

Will has about a million follow-up questions after that little revelation, the second in as many days regarding the man’s personal history, but settles instead on remarking, “Bet I know which you preferred.”

“Are you firmly decided on homeschooling then?” Will sighs and shakes his head.

“Not all of us can afford fancy French tutors,” Will answers, signing another page and flipping over to the next, the seriousness of his tone betraying the snark he was going for. Maybe if his work allowed more time for him to take up the task himself as he’d previously hinted, but that would mean he’d have to quit consulting for the behavioral science unit and he’s not quite ready to give up on that just yet, not when he’s still saving lives. He can’t imagine Crawford would make a decision like that easy on him either and accept Will’s sudden upgrade to family man as a valid excuse.

He’ll need to vet the schools on this list for adults who will respond appropriately when the asshole kids inevitably start being little assholes and actually step in to help instead of making it worse, to say nothing of making sure they’re qualified to meet Milly’s needs and not push her the way some of his worst teachers had tried to push him. Which means interviews with the principals and homeroom teachers. Joy.

While he’s still finishing up all the signing and initialing, Milly begins her descent back down the ladder on her own. Hannibal steps away from Will’s side to be closer, not hovering but near enough that he can move in quickly to catch her should she slip. She makes it down on her own without incident.

“I apologize for not having any literature suitable to your interests,” Hannibal tells her. “I don’t typically have visitors who are around your age. Is there a particular genre of fiction you prefer?”

Will continues signing but keeps one ear on the conversation, curious about the answer himself and how Milly will give it. He wonders if Hannibal has figured out how her communication style works yet, where her particular vocabulary set comes from. As for Will, he already did a bit of googling while she was playing with the dogs earlier today and downloaded something called a “Pokédex” app. He’d thought about ordering a book or two as well, preferring the tactile feel of one in his hands to relying on his phone, but _good_ _lord._ There were just…so many. At the moment, he wouldn’t know where to start.

Milly sucks reflexively on her conch toy and thinks about her answer, tilting and swaying her body around in a semicircle while her feet remain planted firmly on the ground, and likely only managing to stay _on_ said feet without toppling over because of this. (Will remembers well from personal childhood experience…hell, who is he kidding, he managed to fall over _last week_ just from a slight indecisive lean after he forgot why he was walking to the kitchen mid-step. There weren’t even any dogs nearby he could pretend to himself he’d tripped over as an excuse.)

It comes to her and she stops suddenly, impressively only a _little_ bit disoriented by the abrupt motion before she blinks her dizziness away. Pulling the toy out and continuing to hold it in one hand, she raises both arms in front of her face, elbows bent and hands hooked like claws, and declares, “Haunter!” When this doesn’t get an immediate show of recognition, she throws even more exaggerated fiendishness into her voice and amends it with, _“Gastly!”_

“Ghastly, you say? As in ghost stories?” The indulgent smile Hannibal gives is as much in response to the girl’s utterly adorable way of answering as it is to the equally exaggerated groan behind him. “Not fond of scary stories, Will?”

“More like I’m beginning to wonder if I didn’t in fact just adopt a clone of myself.”

“You share Milly’s penchant for them then?” the older man asks, seemingly delighted by this new sliver of knowledge about Graham.

“I did at that age,” Will admits, eyes on his sister as he replies. “You grow out of it as you get older and your imagination only gets better,” he says, almost in warning to the girl. She interprets it as such at the very least, crinkling her nose and shaking her head vehemently in response.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says in agreement with her. “Life’s little morbid curiosities can only enrich our everyday experiences and enhance their value, in moderation. Gets the blood pumping.”

Will wants to argue a little more, but he can’t think of anything appropriate to add while Milly is still also part of the conversation. He can’t very well talk to her about the nightmares he has or the ugly mathematics of human behavior, or at least not now, and not in the way he and Lecter discuss it. He may not have much about how _not_ to talk to kids figured out, but he understands that much at least.

The other man invites them both to dinner, but Milly is starting to look a bit antsy and like she doesn’t know entirely what to do with her hands, flapping them a bit more agitatedly. He figures she may be getting a little tired and overstimulated from going to so many new places in one day, and Lecter’s house would likely be a bit too overwhelming for her in light of that. It had been _a lot_ to take in even for him on his first visit.

He politely declines and drives them home. He makes mac and cheese again with fried bologna sandwiches while Milly stands on the porch and watches the dogs go about their business, smiling at the look of horror he can imagine flitting across the doctor’s face if he could see what they’d turned his offer down for to put in their bodies instead. Simpler meals are best though after such a busy day.

It hits him all of a sudden, how right this all feels, how normal, and how _abnormal_ it is for him to feel this way. Yesterday morning he was just a middle-aged bachelor with way too many dogs living out in the middle of nowhere like some crazy hermit. Today he’s still that, but he also _has a kid._ Holy shit. He wonders if his dad had felt this way, suddenly jumping feet first into becoming a parent without warning, and if that feeling had brought with it more quiet panic or less. Will had been a lot younger than Milly after all, not yet able to look after himself the way she’s obviously already used to.

He’s glad she’s fairly self-reliant too, but how much of that is simply normal for her age, and how much is it borne out of necessity and neglect? He doesn’t know. Lorraine had seemed attentive enough to Milly’s basic needs from what he saw yesterday, but how far did that go past the bare minimum? He swallows bitterly thinking about it before plating their meal and poking his head out the door to call her back in.

He and Doctor Lecter will have a lot to discuss during their session next week.

*

After the long extended weekend at home, going back to the Academy on Monday feels strange. He has no choice but to take Milly with him. It’s not like he knows any babysitters, and the separation still feels wrong so soon after Lorraine’s departure. He knows it’s irrational and that they’ll have to start spending time apart once she starts school, but it’ll likely be a week or two at the earliest before the interviews are out of the way and they’ve decided upon one anyway.

He does _not_ take her into class with him, even if she does express way more interest than a girl her age should when he very briefly explains his job to her. Instead he makes sure she’s set up comfortably in his office with her gaming console and some snacks before he leaves.

Of course, he shouldn’t be surprised when he returns and finds her DS set aside next to her backpack, Milly sitting at his desk with her feet curled up in his chair and flipping through a book on the Zodiac killings, looking particularly engrossed with the glossy set of photos bound in the middle. Oh, _Christ._

Will makes an abortive noise between a frustrated groan and a weary sigh, gaining her attention enough to pull the book slightly away from her face and blink up at him innocently, not a shred of guilt there at being caught. To be fair, she hasn’t done anything wrong since he hadn’t told her not to look at any of the books in his office. Should he have? _Fuck,_ probably.

Not that it would have likely done anything other than encourage her to actually be sneaky about it. He’s gonna have to remember to set up parental controls on the laptop and television when they get home. He isn’t sure what can be done about the books other than locking them in the gun cabinet though, which he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to do. For some reason, that smacks heavily of censorship in a way that leaves a sour taste in his mouth. There’ll need to be a discussion about all of this tonight, woefully underprepared for it as he is.

“Listen, um…” Shit, what does he even say? “I don’t think that’s something you should be reading. It’s not…it’s not like the scary stories you’re used to. It’s real.” Milly shoots him a very unimpressed look as if to say, _‘Well, duh.’_ Right. She knows where they are and what he teaches. Of course she knew that. But now, where does he go with this?

“I’m not going to tell you you can’t.” He can _feel_ his father’s disapproving frown from beyond the grave for that one, but he’s not going to take it back. Nothing ever spurred Will faster into sticking his nose where it didn’t belong than being told not to, after all. “But I’m warning you now, this kind of stuff, it’s not something you can _unlearn_ later. So just, uh, just be careful. Okay?” God, he’s the _worst_ at this, isn’t he?

Milly does close the book and set it down at the far end of his desk away from his computer, but he gets the impression that’s only because she can sense _his_ discomfort and has every intention of picking it back up again once he leaves for his next class. Good enough, for now. He really doesn’t think he could get any work done with her sitting across from him still reading that like it were any other kind of regular novel.

 Milly relinquishes his seat so he can get on his computer and takes a seat in one of the chairs across from him with her DS in hand again. He has an hour between classes to check his emails, although the desktop takes a few minutes to boot up while it installs system updates first. It’s been awhile since he’s used it or this office much at all really, preferring the open space of his classroom to move around and think when it’s empty. His students know by now to check for him there first if they need to see him during office hours.

Her headphones are still in her bag, so he can hear the tinny sounds of cheery chiptunes music from the handheld’s speakers. It’s oddly soothing to his nerves.

About halfway through his break time, he remembers he hasn’t shown her where the bathroom is yet and asks her if she needs to go. It takes her a moment to think about it before she nods yes.

He stands out in the hall and waits for her, leaning tiredly against a wall with his arms crossed. He hadn’t slept great the night before, though that’s hardly unexpected at this point. He can barely remember a time when he’s woken up truly rested and refreshed, but it was probably sometime before Jack Crawford first pulled him out of his classroom.

Will curses himself for thinking the name not a moment later, for the man himself rounds the corner then as if summoned. Will is already straightening out of his slouch even before Crawford spots him and picks up his pace.

“Will! There you are. What the hell are you doing here, still enjoying the smell of urinal cake?” He has to give the man credit for that one. It is a good throwback.

“No, I—”

“I thought you might have ditched again when I couldn’t find you in your classroom or your office,” Jack interrupts. “Where have you been?”

Will forces back his irritation at being interrupted to focus on the other man’s particular word choice. “Ditched?” he asks.

Jack straightens his stance imperiously. “Alana tells me you missed work more than half of last week. Wanted to know if _I_ had something to do with it,” he adds in a way that’s almost accusatory, as if Will were the one at fault for giving her that impression despite the fact that it’s actually warranted, given that he’s canceled Will’s classes without asking to “borrow” him on cases before.

“So what happened, Will?” the man barrels on. “What, were you sick or something?”

He’s half-inclined to tell the man it’s none of his business, least of all when it only concerns his regular job and doesn’t affect him consulting on cases, but he’s learned from experience that kind of pushback will only antagonize Jack and push him to ask again more aggressively in defense of his alpha dog status. “Family emergency,” he chooses to answer simply.

“Family emergency,” Jack repeats in a sardonic tone, a disbelieving smirk on his face. Granted, Will has never made mention of any living relatives before, but it’s a little insulting the way he says it as though it’s too impossible, as if Will emerged as a fully-formed adult out of a vat of primordial ooze for his and the FBI’s use. “Will, I don’t need to tell you it reflects badly on both of us if you’re seen skipping classes too often. Now, if you need a break, just _say so._ You can’t just go gallivanting off on vacation every time…you…”

Will feels the tug on his sleeve right as Jack starts to trail off and looks down, already feeling a million degrees lighter. “Hi,” he greets. “Ready to head back?” He takes Milly’s hand and starts walking back to the office with her immediately. _Rude, Will,_ his mind supplies. Whatever. He knows Jack will follow anyway.

He doesn’t look but sure enough, he hears the other man’s steady footfalls keeping pace with them. Another thing to be said for Jack, even when he’s taken by surprise, he remains dogged in his pursuits. Once they get to Will’s office, he seems less disgruntled about Will’s supposed negligence of duties and more interested in figuring out how this new puzzle piece fits into what he thought he already knew about the shape of Will Graham.

“I don’t believe we’ve met before, miss,” he says far more personably than before, leaning forward with a smile to offer his hand to Milly. “I’m Agent Jack Crawford of the FBI. What’s your name?”

“It’s Milly,” Will answers for her. The girl looks at Jack’s outstretched hand like she isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do with it or whether she wants to bother. Before the pause gets long enough to be awkward, she darts in close enough to tap the center of his palm lightly with her index finger and then immediately bounces back out of reach, dismissing herself from further interaction by settling back in her seat. Crawford chuckles indulgently.

“She’s shy, isn’t she?” he asks Will. The younger man makes a noncommittal noise in response.

Crawford is less than subtle in the way he looks back and forth between the two of them, and it’s easy to understand why. The resemblance _is_ rather uncanny. “I didn’t realize you had a—”

“Sister,” Will says, the interruption a bit of petty payback for earlier as well as a way to avoid the misconception Jack had been about to voice. He doesn’t add the _‘me neither’_ that echoes in the back of his mind.

“A sister,” Jack finishes with only the smallest note of hesitation. He seems a bit more comfortable with this knowledge than the possibility that Will had been hiding having a kid from him all this time. “So this why you were absent?” he asks, because _of course_ he’s still on about that. “Are you…watching her for your parents right now?”

Milly makes a loud blowing raspberries sound by pressing her lips together and forcing air out through them. Jack looks at her, eyes bugged out a little in surprise.

Will laughs uncontrollably for a minute, equally overtaken and positive he couldn’t have given a better answer himself if he tried. Jack’s eyes return to him, seemingly even more astounded by the sight of a mirthful Will Graham.

_“Ah,_ not…not exactly, Jack,” he finally responds when he can, mouth still twitching. He refuses to go into it deeper than that. He makes a show of looking at his watch. “I have class in a few minutes, but I might as well tell you while you’re here. I, uh, I’ll still try to help out when I can, but I may be a little unavailable over the next few weeks. Between setting up school interviews and catching up my students, among other things, my schedule’s gonna be a bit fuller than usual.”

Jack’s expression clouds over as he takes that information in, obviously not thrilled about it. “I see,” he says after a pause. His gaze darts back to Milly for a microsecond before he turns the full power of his stare on Will and states seriously, “We’ll talk about this again once things are settled down.”

He leaves on that note, smiling and pleasant enough once more by the time he reaches the door to tell Milly it was nice to meet her before he walks out. Her polite wave back is distracted and belated; she doesn’t even look up from the game console already back in her hands. There is no music coming from it this time, however.

All in all, Will thinks it could have gone worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild Jack Crawford also appears! Milly Graham uses Uncaring Dismissal on it. It's super effective!
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> Incidentally, I believe it's implied though never directly stated by Marissa Schurr that Abigail did actually attend school with her since she mentions reporters showing up there, so I took a bit of creative license by saying she was homeschooled here. It makes enough sense anyway that snoopy reporters would go to the local school looking for a scoop without fact-checking whether or not she actually went to one. :P


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Hannibal is sort of an asshole at first, then he's a sap by the end. :P
> 
> CW: canon-typical references to past trauma and child abuse (not Milly, she's fine, barring Lorraine's emotional neglect, abandonment, and ableism that is), and ABA therapy mention (no description though, see more in the link attached in the end note if you don't know what that is).

“Shall we discuss the circumstances which led to this most recent development in your life?” Hannibal asks before they have even sat yet. “You alluded, but it seemed there was more you couldn’t say while Milly was present.” She is currently in the waiting room, listening to music with headphones and perusing a selection of books Hannibal has obtained for her. No outright horror, in the case that Will might balk at the idea of her reading it so late in the evening—though he has purchased a few such anthologies appropriate for children as well and will be offering them to the other man before they leave—but a fair few fantasies which have darker leanings in their themes.

He has also locked the front door so that it could not be opened from the outside—informing her as much, of course, so she would understand that while she was not being locked in, it would be unwise to venture into the parking lot alone anyway lest she accidentally lock herself out. It had soothed the itch of unease at the prospect of not being able to stand between her and anyone who might wander in, unlikely as that may be at this hour. Will had watched him with incisive eyes.

Hannibal does not think he will ask, not today, but he can admit to himself that the reason for his own swiftness of attack is, in small part, one of avoidance and distraction from what might be perceived as a weak point worth probing. It is effective as well, judging by the distant look of pent-up anger and frustration that steals over eyes more sea-green than stormy blue today. Will is always so remarkably expressive, yet marvelously easy to read like this only at certain times while being tantalizingly inscrutable at others, various thoughts and emotions clearly present yet indistinguishable and thus unreadable, and Hannibal has not yet decided which he likes more. There is grand appeal to the psychiatrist in the challenging and enigmatic, but also something immensely satisfying in observing Will at his most impassioned and decisive when he knows himself and where he stands on an issue most clearly.

“I am…prone to making some harsh judgments, rather quickly, when it comes to Lorraine,” Will answers carefully. Neither of them sit, Hannibal standing at his desk with his hands in his pockets while Will stands nearer their usual chairs, in half-profile facing both towards Hannibal and away, towards the door, yet otherwise mirroring the other man in posture and the placement of his own hands. He now wears a wry, wobbly smile, but the sheen of righteous fury is still there. “I may have more patience with understanding killers and their motivations than hers,” he admits with some grim humor and starts pacing a bit, just a short circuit between the same spot directly across from Hannibal and the bronze statue of the stag.

“You have trouble understanding the reasons for her behavior?” Hannibal questions.

“Uh, _no,”_ Will breathes on a harsh laugh. His fingertips graze lightly over the stag’s antlers before he catches himself and stops, pulling his hand away again. He does this often, Hannibal has noticed, and is reminded of that first instance when he had stood close behind and scented him. He brushes that thought aside for the present moment. “I understand them fine,” Will says. “I just find them, um, tasteless. Cheap.” He makes a flat, blasé gesture with his hand. “Not really worth knowing.”

“You find rudeness and offhand cruelty more distasteful than deliberate acts of violence,” Hannibal clarifies, careful to keep the warm satisfaction blooming within from making itself known in his voice. He also considers the use of that word again, _tasteless._ Will had said the same when they met about Freddie Lounds and her vulture-like eye for scraps at every crime scene to feed to her rabid readers. Lorraine and Lounds share other superficial similarities, from the false sincerity and coy smiles even down to stylistic choices in their wardrobes. Amused, he thinks about asking Will whether this may have colored his immediate, vehement dislike of the reporter, which would likely have otherwise taken more time to gradually build because of the man’s empathy, but decides against it. Few appreciate having their own petty foibles pointed out to them, after all, though in Will Hannibal finds even these curiously charming, much like the rest of him.

Will shrugs. “Anyway, I thought it might be better to let you make up your own mind,” he says, and wanders back to the psychiatrist to pull out of his own front breast pocket a folded-up envelope and hold it out for him. The movement is casually enacted, but his fingertips around the seemingly innocuous lump of paper are tight enough to crease and crinkle it further. Nonetheless, when Hannibal takes it, he releases his own hold readily and takes his hand back to shove it into his trouser pocket again, as he might do after an undesired handshake, and looks away again immediately. Hannibal suspects he won’t be asking for it back.

Hannibal unfolds it carefully, eyebrows already shooting up with a glance at Will that goes unacknowledged when he sees the name which is written on the outside in a feminine hand. He pulls the letter out through the unconventional tear down its short side and reads over it twice.

Much about the author’s personality is immediately apparent—her narcissism, her stunted emotional maturity and personal disorganization, her beliefs rooted in the unchallenged assumption that simple blood ties trump any ill will and resentments cultivated between she and her children. She litters the paper in his hands with endearments and declarations of sentiment which have no real meaning, as if the words alone are enough and all that is required to promote attachment. It matches up with his impression of the woman since the one time he has met her. None of this is worth voicing aloud. It is obvious already. Will seeks nothing more perhaps than confirmation of what he knows from a more objective party, but Hannibal has no interest in offering what would be little more than dull repetition of the other man’s observations.

“She uses much of the same language in regards to you and Milly both,” he starts simply. “The same epithets and reassurances.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Will responds dryly, as he expected. “She’s always done that. Thinks a few ‘ _I love you, sweetie_ ’ _s_ are all it takes to breed familiarity and…filial loyalty,” he sneers.

“It’s not your loyalty she’s after,” Hannibal corrects sharply. Will seems to startle a bit, mostly at his tone. “It’s control and ownership.” Will’s lips move slightly, silently echoing the last word. “Every sweet word is a pointed tool designed to chisel away at your defenses. She couldn’t care less, Will, if she has your love or respect, except in how much she believes she can wield them to make demands of you. What she seeks, in plainest terms, is _obedience.”_

“Are you trying to make me resent her _more_ than I’ve already done my whole life?” Will asks. “Because you’re doing a bang-up job at it so far. I, _aheh,”_ he laughs, in the wild thorny manner Hannibal admires so. “I didn’t think I had more left to give in that department, so _thank you,_ doctor, for proving to me otherwise.”

It would almost be overkill at this point to continue, but he does so enjoy the range and interplay of emotions this is eliciting in Will. “ _‘Resent’_ is a powerful word choice, Will,” he points out. “We cannot forget someone whom we resent. She could have left you and never looked back all those years ago, but instead she chose to return time and again, to ensure that she wouldn’t be forgotten. That little boy who resented her visits must have, on some level, dreaded them for what they represented, the one thing continually dangled in front of him that he could never have.”

Will takes in a heavy breath and shifts into a classic defensive stance, leaning back against the chair behind him, eyes blank on the wall over Hannibal’s shoulder, arms crossed over himself and held at the elbows. Hannibal leaves the letter on the desk and steps in closer to him.

“It is that little boy she is trying to appeal to when she addresses you as Billy.” Will outright flinches at the nickname. He still will not look at Hannibal directly and continues to gaze past him. “I’m sure it must have bothered you, Will, but I wonder if you recognized it for how demeaning it was, how infantilizing. That was what I meant when I pointed out the way she placed you and Milly on equal footing. Despite the enormous responsibility she’s chosen to place squarely on your shoulders, it’s clear from how Lorraine behaves and how she speaks to you that she doesn’t even regard you as truly being an adult.”

Will’s eyes are wet but not quite to the point of being on the verge of tears. He looks down to the floor now instead of the wall. Hannibal reads in his expression a kind of cold fury, indignation, embarrassment, and—what to Will must feel like the most damning of them all— _hurt._ “You’re quite good at twisting the knife, Dr. Lecter,” he says quietly after a moment. He looks up at last into Hannibal’s eyes; his own still have that shine to them but there is also more of that lovely, simmering wrath underneath. “I have to wonder though if all of it was really _necessary_ to my therapy,” he says with some bite, sardonic, “or if you just get a real kick out of putting me through the wringer like that.”

_Bit of both,_ he could answer too honestly, but he’s aware that he’s already come close to pushing Will too far today and can’t risk provoking him into withdrawing from him. “You’re the one who wanted to show me the letter, Will,” he gets around it by answering. His own expression relaxes and softens naturally, more friend now than psychoanalyst. “You asked, without asking, if I thought you were judging the intent behind your mother’s actions too harshly. I’ve given you my answer.”

Will’s gaze widens before he blinks rapidly and looks away again, seeming surprised by that response and more touched by it than he expected. “That’s…well, um. Okay then.” He coughs.

They spend what little remains of their hour on less fraught topics. Will thinks Milly may be able to start school sooner than expected—they are both taken with a promising Montessori-style school close to where Will works, though he expresses some uncertainty whether it will be the best fit since he doesn’t know yet how self-motivated Milly will be in an academic setting less rigidly structured than what she’s used to.

Apparently, he had all but taken the girl and ran from the first two schools visited, or so Will humorously puts it, having quite literally walked out mid-interview both times at the first mention of ABA practices. Hannibal is aware of the controversy surrounding the use of Applied Behavior Analysis methods with autistic children, as while it had seemingly yielded effective results since its widespread implementation in the States, there have been loud outcries against it by individuals who were placed into such programs and denounce its tactics as abusive. He asks Will if Mirabelle seemed at all familiar with the term.

“No, I had to explain afterwards and I’m pretty sure she never went through any of that, _thank god,”_ Will says. “Though it’s possible she did have a teacher who tried to push too hard for speech therapy at some point, that one got a reaction,” he notes, gritting his teeth. Hannibal wonders if it might be possible to obtain a name someday, whether by asking the girl directly or gleaning the information from past school records, and mentally makes a note of his own to set aside one of his recipe cards for braised tongue.

“What about you, Will?  Any experiences of your own to speak of?” Will seems honestly surprised by the question, perhaps not used to anyone caring enough to ask. He shakes his head.

“Not like that. I was lucky too,” he says. “I wasn’t officially diagnosed until my teens, back when they were still calling what most closely matched my traits Asperger’s, and by then I doubt anyone saw the point,” he adds with a sardonic shrug. “My dad always sorta knew anyway and just didn’t have a name for it. Only took me to be evaluated because the school counselor kept pushing for it, but it didn’t make a difference to our lives afterwards either. He just said, _‘Whelp, now you can tell people exactly what’s up next time they get in your business if you don’t feel like telling ’em to fuck off instead.’_ He treated me the same as always.” Will smiles in fondness at the memory.

“Lucky indeed,” Hannibal murmurs. He does not think back to past childhood abuses at the orphanage, a mute, traumatized boy in the snow, the sharp sting of a switch. Those memories are locked away in a room in a corridor of his mind palace he rarely ventures down. He should not be disappointed that neither Will nor Mirabelle have first-hand knowledge of such things, but a very small part of him is.

Will is looking at him again, in a way not dissimilar from how he looked when Hannibal locked the door earlier, but softer. Hannibal holds his gaze for a moment longer, and then checks his watch. Their hour is up. He goes to the door leading out to the waiting area and Will follows.

Milly is engrossed in her book and does not notice them come in until her brother kneels down at her chair and looks up at her. “’M’all done here,” he informs her once she pulls her earphones away and looks back. Hannibal wonders if Will has ever noticed that when his voice softens, it relaxes in such a way that his accent becomes more pronounced, and has done so more since the girl entered his life. “What’chu reading?” She shows him the front and back covers.

He hums with interest. “Tell you what, if you give me a chance to catch up where you’re at after dinner, we could read more together at bedtime?” he proposes, clearly in request rather than proclamation or expectancy. She nods with vigor. Hannibal can’t say he blames her and is very nearly jealous. He has always thought Will has a voice that would be excellent for reading aloud.

“I have more books than those for you to take home, though not all of them would make suitable bedtime stories,” he informs them with a wink, to Mirabelle’s amusement and pleasure and Will’s equal amusement with feigned disgruntlement.

“Of course you do,” he grouses, but thanks him again when Hannibal fetches them and a canvas bag to carry all of their new literature out. The tightness around his mouth does bely some genuine discomfort with accepting yet more of Hannibal’s kindness, but he accepts since it is for Milly. Hannibal will need to be creative in how he presents future gifts to him that are not selected with her in mind, if not even outright disguise them as such.

He goes home after the Grahams depart to have dinner alone. Later, after the dishes have been washed up and he is dressed down in his pajamas for the evening, he goes to his private study where he had put away the other copies of the new books, of which all he had bought two of each, and selects the same volume Milly had shown to Will.

He does not sit down at the fireplace in his bedroom to read immediately, but waits until a time when it would be reasonable to expect Will to settle in his own chair to do the same, first alone and then upstairs in Milly’s bedroom to the rapt attention of the girl curled up in bed. He glances briefly at the front page and then closes his eyes to picture it, allowing the soft cadence of Will’s voice to wash over him before opening them again to follow along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's glossed-over assessment of ABA therapy woefully undersells just how vile and deplorable it is. Many of my fellow autistic readers are likely already aware, but for those who aren't and the rest of you folks, here's an [essay](https://madasbirdsblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/25/i-abused-children-and-so-do-you-a-response-to-an-aba-apologist/) which explains and also references many, many other sources on the subject. Please educate yourselves, especially if you might have autistic kids yourself or work with them. ABA is horrid and anyone who tells you otherwise, even if they're a professional or a parent, is wrong and should not be trusted on the matter. Don't take my word for it (I'm one of the lucky ones like Will and Milly here and never went through that shit), but do listen to the many, many voices of other autistics who HAVE lived it and will tell you the same. 
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> **Although I haven't experienced ABA first-hand, thinking about it does make me uncomfortable and anxious, so I would appreciate if comments on this are kept minimal and focus on the rest of the story instead. I just needed to make sure everybody was properly informed. Thank you for understanding. You guys rock!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Will Graham has a nice day at work for once. Meanwhile, hints of canon-related plot slowly start creeping their way back in...

Aside from a few unobtrusive texts checking in on him after his absence the other week, Will doesn’t hear too much from Alana, and in fact doesn’t see her in person at all until the week following his return. This doesn’t surprise him, since she has always tried to avoid being alone with him too much and maintain a careful distance even in her concern, but it does surprise him when she greets him in his empty classroom yet also glances briefly around the room, even trying to peer discreetly over his shoulder in a way she’s probably hoping he won’t notice.

“Looking for something?” he asks, a little amused and bemused at the same time.

She turns back to him with almost a guilty demeanor, and Will realizes only then just what, or rather _who,_ she was looking for. “Jack mentioned there was a girl with you here last week.”

“Not in my _classroom,”_ Will huffs. “Give me a little credit.” He says it good-naturedly, knowing she means well. He’s not surprised to learn that Jack already told her about Milly and isn’t as bothered about it as he could be, not when it’s her.

She smiles in kind. “No, of course not, sorry.” The thread of concern is still there at the corners of it when she continues, a little more awkwardly than he’s used to, “So…you have a little sister?”

“Yep,” he says, letting the ‘p’ pop at the end as he sways back and forth lightly on the balls of his feet. He does have a tendency to get a little more playful in the way he speaks to Alana sometimes, trying to keep things light and easy between them, but realizes a little too late in this case that it might be coming across as childish and immediately stops the motion, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry I missed her visit then,” Alana says. “If I’d known about it I would have stopped by your office to say hi.”

“That’s fine. Um, I wanted to talk to you about that anyway,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “About meeting her, I mean. I’ve just been so busy with getting her moved in and settled, there hasn’t been time.”

“Moved in?” Alana asks, the tightness around her eyes and mouth returning. “She’s not back with your mother?” Alana at least knows that his father is dead and doesn’t say _“your parents.”_

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” His tone is wry, but he hopefully manages to keep the bitter sneer that wants to form from showing on his face. “Our mother apparently felt she needed some…personal time to sort herself out, or something like that,” he says as diplomatically as he can.

“She left you responsible for her other child?” she clarifies, understandably a bit visibly appalled.

“Got it in one.” He smirks humorlessly. “You can see why I thought it might be a good idea for Milly to have someone to talk to besides me. If that’s okay with you.”

Alana seems a bit flabbergasted that he would ask her in the first place, but recovers herself quickly. “I-of course! Yes, I’d be happy to meet with her.” She smiles warmly for him once more. “I’m glad you feel comfortable with asking me.”

Will shrugs. “The list of psychiatrists I’m comfortable with in the first place is overwhelmingly short.” She nods understandingly and they hash out the details for when she should come by.

Jack pays him another visit later that week as well, showing up at his door right as his students begin to file out just like the first time. “I wanted to bring you in on the scene while it was fresh,” he launches into straight away, “but I know you’ve been busy and might not be up for making out-of-town trips again just yet.” Will appreciates the other man’s restraint, even if it has its limits and he knows those aren’t always where he would like. “You’ve at least got the time to stop by the lab now though, I trust?” It’s not as much of a request as Jack’s trying to make it out to be as it is a subtle demand, but Will does have the time since Milly won’t be out of school for a few hours yet. He lets Jack brief him on the details while he grabs a bag of chips and a candy bar from the vending machine in lieu of getting actual lunch, to make up for the time constraint since he can’t stay as long as he normally might.

“Thought it might be a Ripper kill at first,” Jack tells him as they walk. “Wouldn’t be the first time he left a display bearing some religious undertones, but there were no organs taken.” He adds with a long, side-eyed glance, “Not that we were able to tell that for sure initially. It was practically like soup in there.”

Will looks over the crime scene photos and immediately understands what Jack means by religious undertones. “Angels,” he states the obvious aloud for Jack’s benefit, not because Jack needs the obvious stated but because he likes being able to tell where Will’s train of thought is going. “Praying to him or…for him.” There’s a close-up of vomit on the nightstand next to the motel bed as well. He looks to the other man inquisitively.

“The tox screens should be coming back on that any minute now, but we think it’s the unsub’s,” Jack informs him. “Katz can fill you in on the details, then you can come up and fill me in on them, tell me what you think,” he says and leaves Will to it at the door to the lab, heading back up to his own office. A good thing to be said about Jack’s leadership style, at least when there’s no sense of high urgency on a particular case to spur him into pushier or more aggressive action, is that he doesn’t tend to hover and micromanage while the labwork is still being done, leaving that aspect to his science team’s capable hands until the results are in and spending his own time in the meanwhile handling all the paperwork and bureaucratic side of things upstairs.

Will knows exactly why _he_ is expected in the lab, on the other hand, expected to familiarize himself with the way things are run there, and expected to keep coming back and offer profile after profile when he was supposedly only meant to help on the Shrike case originally.

It had taken Will a bit longer than he would have liked to figure it out, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it once he did, but he understands now that he’s being groomed to catch one killer in particular. Jack even tipped his hand a little just a minute ago by mentioning him, the monster who never strays too far from Crawford’s thoughts no matter the case they’re currently working on—the Chesapeake Ripper.

They haven’t discussed it, not yet. Nor will they, he imagines, until the Ripper gives them a reason to. Crawford must be thinking (hoping) that day will come sooner rather than later. Will doesn’t know what he hopes for.

“Hey there, teach, long time no see,” Beverly greets as soon as he walks in, alone for the moment, no Price or Zeller in sight. “Jack finally manage to rope you back into this?”

“I wasn’t _gone,_ just…taking a little break.” From the casualness of her question and the fact that she doesn’t ask about anything else, it seems that Jack hasn’t been gossiping about his personal business to everyone, just to Alana. He appreciates that at least.

“Must be nice,” she smirks. “Instruct me in your ways, Obi-Wan, I’ve got vacation days stacked up I should take, but I always feel awkward just thinking about bringing it up. Feels too much like a visit to the principal’s office.”

“I think you’d still be better at it than me,” he admits to her with bald honesty. He knows how hard it is for him to say no to things when it’s only his own needs being taken into consideration and no one else’s. “It wasn’t really a vacation, just practicality. Extenuating circumstances. This the toxicology report?” he asks, looking over her shoulder at the computer screen in front of her.

“Hold on,” she says, turning in her seat to face him and pushing him back just a smidge with her hand on his shoulder. “You can’t drop a phrase like _‘extenuating circumstances’_ all mysteriously on me like that and not expect an interrogation, buster. What’s going on with you?”

Will smiles. This is why he likes Beverly. Despite her jibe about it being an “interrogation,” there’s nothing demanding in the tone of her question. If he asks her not to push on this, she won’t. It’s not a secret he intends to hide from his co-workers though. If anything, he already suspects the woman would be a good ally to have if Jack gets too pushy about the new constraints on his availability.

He straightens and takes out his phone to show her its most recent photo, one of Mirabelle with her arms full of a squirming, excitable terrier. “That’s Buster and Milly,” he points out, and Katz snorts automatically at the first name, no doubt finding amusement in knowing she just inadvertently called him the same thing he named one of his dogs. His own smile spasms a bit wider briefly in turn. “She’s my sister.” Half-sister technically, but he’s yet to see a reason to clarify as much to anyone when it doesn’t actually matter to him.

“The human and not the dog, I assume.” Will rolls his eyes at the teasing.

“The dog is a male, and _yes,_ the human,” he rejoins in the same tone.

“I thought you said you were an only child.” She means when they all briefly discussed their childhood home lives during the Lost Boys case. Strange to think that was only two months ago.

“Zeller said that. I didn’t.”

“But you didn’t refute it,” she points out. She’s prying now obviously, but with the same easygoing attitude as before which makes her brand of nosiness bearable and even sort of oddly welcome. It makes it easier to be more open with her than he has with almost anyone else except for Hannibal.

“I didn’t know there was anything to refute at the time,” he admits quietly.

She looks at him in stunned silence for a moment. “Well, _damn._ I think that beats out even Price’s family drama by a long shot.”

“You have no idea,” he drawls. That gets an intrigued eyebrow raise, but she doesn’t pry any further for now. She does ask if she can see more pictures, however.

He hesitates a little at the question, finding it unexpected, but unlocks his phone again and hands it to her.

“I’m not gonna find anything naughty I wasn’t meant to see if I go scrolling through this, am I?” Will laughs, easing the tension in his shoulders exactly as she obviously intended, and shakes his head.

“That’s, uh, that’s not really my style.” And it’s not like there’s been anyone he might even want to send pictures like that to in a long time anyway.

She only scrolls through the most recent ones anyway, of which there aren’t many yet, stopping when she gets to the one Lorraine sent him of the three of them. “Your mom?” she asks. “Wow, you guys all have the same eyes.”

His jaw clenches a little unconsciously. “Not exactly the same.” She glances up at him again, and he can see her piecing it together without him having to say anything.

With her unique blend of blunt gentleness, she says, “I take it you’re not expecting her to come back and show up for more pictures anytime soon.”

“She’s not welcome to show up for more of them even if she wanted to,” he mutters darkly, and is immensely grateful to see no hint of judgment on her face. Despite being unable to relate personally, coming from such a big happy family herself, Katz understands. “I honestly wish she wasn’t in that one either.” He hasn’t looked at it more than the once since it was taken, not wanting to see that smug little smile of hers again.

“Oh, that’s an easy fix,” Katz says, tapping the photo and rapidly typing in her own email address to send it to. Her own phone vibrates once on the desk next to her keyboard. “Give me five minutes with Photoshop once I’m done here for the day,” she tells him, gesturing vaguely with one hand around the lab. “I’ll send you the replacement probably before you’re even sitting down to dinner. Unless you’re one of those old people who eats at like four thirty on the dot or something.”

“You don’t have to do that. I can crop her out myself later.” He just hadn’t given much thought to doing it before now between work, the dogs, and Milly.

“Not as seamlessly as I can. I’m talking better than just a basic crop. Don’t sweat it, I got this.”

Will doesn’t pretend to understand why the simple addition of a child into his life seems to make everyone else either suddenly more uncomfortable and weird around him or insistent on doing him favors, _or both,_ but he thanks her and takes his phone back when she holds it out to him.

Price and Zeller return soon afterwards with fast food, so the four of them are able to look over the lab results together while they eat. Thankfully, no one present is too squeamish to do so while reading the facts laid out blandly and succinctly in the reports, even if they are discussing the contents of their unsub’s stomach and the spiked drinks given to his victims, both currently stored away out of sight in the freezers for now.

“Took you guys long enough to come back,” says Katz, stuffing a handful of fries into her mouth almost before she’s finished speaking like a woman starved. Will sits beside her and peels down the wrapper on his candy bar.

“Yeah, they were out of cherry limeade when we got there and _someone,”_ Zeller shoots an accusatory glance over at Price, “insisted on staying for the whole twenty goddamn minute wait for them to make more.”

“It was the only reason I wanted Sonic in the first place, and I do not apologize for it.” Jimmy punctuates his statement with a sip of his drink and a loud, smacking, satisfied pop of his lips after for emphasis, clearly just to annoy Zeller. “They even gave us an extra one for being so patient. Speaking of,” he places said drink on the countertop in front of Will. “It’s yours since we didn’t get you anything.”

“Oh. Thanks.” He prefers strawberry normally, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s surprisingly…nice, sitting so companionably with the three of them as they discuss things, work talk interspersed with good-natured ribbing and random chitchat, which he mostly listens to rather than participates in, still being utterly shit at small talk even if he does feel less like an interloper on their group dynamic and more like he might actually, almost sort of belong there for once.

It gets bizarre almost to the point of surreal when he makes the mistake of asking if any of them know anything about Pokémon.

Everyone goes silent for a second, but before Will can sink down into his chair from mortification, Zeller blurts, “You’re into Pokémon? Wait a minute, you’re not the Valor asshole who keeps taking back the gym with a goddamn Slaking, are you?”

“What?” Will asks blankly. Beside him, Beverly hides her face behind her hand and is clearly trying very hard not to laugh, while Jimmy just sighs quietly.

“Because if you are, joke’s on you, pal, his defense is _shit._ I can take him down with my Machamp easily and he’s not even that good, so thanks for the free XP mining, genius.”

“What?” Will repeats.

“It’d last longer maybe if it had Play Rough instead of Hyper Beam, but that’s still only about a thirty second defeat max.”

“He’s never going to shut up about this now,” Jimmy groans. “This is your fault, Will. You’ve wrought this curse upon us. _And after I gave you my other limeade,”_ he intones in a voice of bleak betrayal.

Beverly snickers. Brian turns to her. “I’m still not totally convinced it’s not you either though, Bev.”

“I don’t even play that game, Zee.”

“So you keep saying.”

“Oh my god, do you want to look through my damn app library again just for proof that it’s _still not there?”_ she retorts.

Will is starting to feel his ever-lurking headache resurge in full force. Katz notices his pinched-in expression and appears to take pity on him.

“He’s talking about Pokémon Go,” she explains at last. Well, that helps a little. He does remember hearing some hype surrounding it on the news last year before interest died down, and it was one of the suggested apps listed when he went looking into Pokédexes. “Is this a Milly thing?” she asks him. Will nods.

“Who’s Milly?” asks Price curiously.

“His little sister.”

“Wait, I thought you were an only kid?” Brian interjects.

_“You_ were the one who said that,” she points out again. Will is grateful to her for deftly skirting around the more private details he disclosed earlier so he doesn’t have to.

“I’m trying to learn about it to talk to her more,” he explains. He doesn’t get into how _literally_ he means that, not quite comfortable enough with them or certain enough about their reactions to share as much yet.

“In that case, you _definitely_ should get Pokémon Go,” Zeller declares. Will’s pretty sure the man has never spoken to him about anything with so much enthusiasm before. “It’s just casual enough to be the perfect gateway for a noob like you.”

“Not the way you play it,” Jimmy mutters.

“Did you really just call our friend a ‘noob’ like a twelve year old on a Reddit page?” Katz asks. Will blinks, more startled by the phrase “our friend” than anything else in the conversation thus far.

“But you have to _promise_ me you’re gonna pick Team Instinct!” Brian carries on as if he hasn’t heard either of them, with an almost accusatory finger pointed at Will for emphasis. “I won’t stand for another member of my own unit joining one of the enemy teams. _Instinct,_ that’s the yellow one, not Valor or Mystic, got it?”

“I…okay.” Will does not bother to point out that he’s technically not a BSU member, only a consultant for them on the side.

“Jesus, Brian, you can’t just bully him into joining your side. He didn’t even say he’d play.”

“You just want him on your precious Red Team, Beverly Katz, don’t think I’m not onto you.”

“Just because I said, ‘Ooh, a Pichu!’ when I saw that picture of one doesn’t mean I actually _know_ anything about Pokémon. My brothers watch the show!”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but could we perhaps get back to talking about the murder vomit?” Jimmy asks. “I would like to talk about the murder vomit.”

Gradually, the topic does return to work and more or less stays there until Will has to leave to pick Milly up from school. His phone pings on their way home and when he checks briefly at a stop light, he sees that it’s a picture text from Katz.

He smiles. Milly smiles reflexively too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I play Pokémon Go _super_ casually and non-competitively, and don't even understand how the gyms or raids work frankly, so I had to do a lotta extra research online to ensure Zeller's confusing rant at least made some kind of sense lol. Honestly, I'm _barely_ more knowledgeable than Will or Hannibal since, even though I fucking LOVED Pokémon as a kid and it still holds a special place in my heart now, I never really played any of the games except for a bit of Sapphire and stopped being allowed to watch the show around the time Gen 2 started making its appearance there (not an "overly strict parent" thing so much as an "only one TV hooked up to cable in the house and zero say over the remote" thing). It's such a bigger behemoth now than it ever was when I fell out of it. xD
> 
> The reason I'm telling you this now is because I'm slowly having to teach myself all over again as much as Will and Hannibal are teaching themselves for the first time, and it's been harder to make the time for that much research than I expected it to be what with all the other stories I'm juggling, but I want to do this right for Milly's sake, so if you're a Pokémon fan, please be patient with me. <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, a character goes temporarily nonverbal under stress and a brief reference is made to a potentially harmful self-stim. It's very, very minor and no damage is done at all, but heads-up anyway.

She is asleep until she isn’t. At first, she doesn’t know why she isn’t anymore, blinking sleepily and rubbing gunk from her eyes before she looks up, and then it kind of makes sense even though it’s a little unexpected. Her brother is standing there next to her bed. Had it been anyone else she would have startled and been scared, but since it’s just him she blinks up at him some more confusedly. “Pika?” she asks. It doesn’t feel right without the head tilt, but she’s still tired and doesn’t feel like doing it.

Will doesn’t respond and just keeps standing there. He isn’t even really looking at her even though he is, his eyes glassy and dull. Then he puts his hand on top of her head, like it’s supposed to be the start of a gentle pat or something but instead he just leaves it there, heavy and awkward.

_“Pika…”_ she grumbles this time, low and irritable. His hand slides just as awkwardly away, down her face—she actually has to close her eyes so he doesn’t accidentally poke one of them with his fingers—and he shuffles like a zombie back towards the open doorway. Milly giggles, more awake and realizing by now that he must still be asleep.

He doesn’t close the door behind him when he goes, so she has to get up to do it herself. She pokes her head out first to watch him half-stumble down the hallway back towards his own room, except instead of going there, he turns like he’s about to head down to the first floor.

Milly wordlessly cries out, which makes some of the dogs wake up and bark, and scurried paws below mean some of them are getting up and trying to figure out where the noise came from, but Will keeps going and doesn’t wake up. Milly darts out of her room and runs over to grab him by the arm and pull him backwards. She hasn’t had him for very long, but she’s not about to lose him now over something dumb like a bad tumble down the stairs.

Will shouts too this time, and it’s loud and scared and _scary_ and he jerks and thrusts his arm out, pushing her away from him. She stumbles backwards and falls hard on her tailbone. Will falls down too, both of them having lost their balance from the sudden jerky motion, but at least it’s on the landing with his back scraping against the wall behind him and not down a flight of steps. He makes a face like the scrape hurts a lot, probably about as much as her falling on her butt did if not more, but his face doesn’t untwist and just stays pained and upset and unhappy and she sees that he’s shaking just a tiny little bit. Is he still asleep?

The dogs are all going nuts by this point, some of them rushing up the stairs to sniff worriedly at their fallen humans or growl at the shadows in case their unknown assailant is lurking in one of them. Will cringes away from every cold nose and makes that hissy noise to shoo them all away, pointing limply back to the bottom floor. It takes a few tries before enough of them listen, leaving only Winston to sit proudly and vigilantly on the top step and Buster to remain stubbornly and lick at Will’s toes. Will yanks his foot back, so Milly scoops the easily excitable little dog up in her arms and nuzzles her face into his fur to soothe him before he has a chance to get offended by the slight.

Will is turned in an uncomfortable-looking, half-prone position with his face buried in the crook of his arm, and almost looks like he might have fallen back to sleep in that awkward pose as easily as a Snorlax except that his shoulders still have that shake which has gotten more pronounced and irregular. It’s hard to look at because when adults cry it almost feels worse than when other kids do, not because they feel more (they don’t) but like they feel extra on top of it somehow. She thinks it’s because they get embarrassed or mad at themselves almost as much as they feel bad about whatever made them cry in the first place. Grown-ups are strange like that, apparently even this one.

“Darkrai?” she asks softly, looking at the terrier in her lap instead of him. She had bad dreams as well a few nights ago that he had to soothe her out of, so he knows about that one already without looking it up. When she glances up again, his head is still on his arm but turned to face her now, his eyes both red and damp. Both of them flinch at the unexpected eye contact and look away again.

The man sits up straighter and tries to say something, but only parts his lips slightly and twitches them noiselessly for a second before closing them. He tries again. Same result, but with a tiny almost croak she can kind of hear coming from the back of his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and thunks his head frustratedly back against the wall.

“Uh-uh,” she voices sharply, disapproving. Buster twitches in her arms so she has to adjust him and pat him apologetically so he knows it’s not for him. She knows it wasn’t a hard enough thunk to do damage, but _still._

Apparently her reprimanding him is funny for some reason because it makes an involuntary smile spasm on his face while his eyes are still closed and he gives a conceding nod in response, only with his hand instead of his head. He breathes in deeply through his nose and looks at her again. _“I’m sorry,”_ he mouths distinctly. She guesses he means for the accidental push, not the head thunk, considering how tired and serious he appears.

After her nightmare the other night, Will didn’t grumble at her tiredly and make her go back to bed like Mom would have done. He stayed up and listened to her verbally self-stim, listing all of the Fairy type Pokémon in frontwards order then backwards over and over again. His memory has to be really good too because after she’d said it enough times to tire her throat even though the rest of her was still awake, he got her water and then came back and picked up right where she left off, reciting them for her while she drank without missing a single one. She’d eventually fallen asleep to it.

Milly gets up and plops herself down against the wall next to him. He stiffens slightly, making her think he still doesn’t want to be touched, until he puts an arm around her shoulders and shifts, laying his cheek on top of her head as they both stare aimlessly down the hallway stretched out ahead of them.

“Clefairy,” she begins. “Clefable, Alolan Ninetales, Jigglypuff, Wigglytuff, Mr. Mime…”

With his head above hers, she doesn’t see the way his eyes follow some kind of movement out the darkened window, visible only to him. She only feels the way his arm around her tightens just a bit.

“…Carbink, Klefki, Xerneas…” His arm twitches again here, and he sighs. There is relief in that sigh, comfort, so she snuggles closer and keeps going.

“…Tapu Lele, Tapu Bulu, Tapu Fini, Magearna.” She loves the Alolans, especially Mimikyu, her favorite and one of the Fairy types. Magearna would understand her best though, and she understands it very well. She imagines Will would relate to it the most too, especially right now.

She says its name softly again, and repeats the whole list quietly in reverse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are **fifty-three** Fairy Pokémon in all, and Will memorized the names of them all in front _and_ backwards order in a single night. That's not as awesome as how much Milly knows and she's done more than memorize some names and the order they go in, but still. Be fuckin' impressed, y'all.
> 
> Y'all don't need to check out the online entries for _every_ Pokémon listed in this chapter, but there are a few significant ones mentioned here which could enrich your understanding of what's going on in the story (though there's just enough context given within the fic itself that it's not necessary). At least one of them will definitely be making an appearance again as well. ;)
> 
> We've been pretty Will-centric up til this point with a smattering of Hannibal's POV sprinkled in for good measure, but here's where we start shaking the old hannigram formula up a bit and start looking at everything more frequently from Milly's perspective from now on. Who knows, maybe we'll even get an Abigail POV chapter at a later date too. (Once she finally shows up that is. :P)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART - in the silence, a sound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12043869) by [jazzy2may](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzy2may/pseuds/jazzy2may)




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